Podcasts about Central station

This week, we follow up with last weeks episode with another Salles film. Releasing nearly three decades earlier, this film's documentary feel shows promise from the director. It is also the first Brazilian film to receive a best actor/actress Oscar nomination. Central Station (1998), directed by Walter Salles.

In this episode of LIGHT TALK, The Lumen Brothers and Sister talk about everything from Keeping your Atmospheres Beautiful, to Our New Color, "Olo".  Join Ellen, Steve, David, and Stan as they pontificate about: Girls on the Town!;  A new color no one has ever seen before;  New hope for Color Blindness; More news from Texas; Best technques for lighting an orchestra;  Lighting toilets in grand Central Station; Adding facial visibility to dark and textured atmospheres; Delivering brutal honesty with style; Light and Health; and The differences in "top-shelf" lighting consoles. Nothing is Taboo, Nothing is Sacred, and Very Little Makes Sense.

Jim and Sean discuss the 2025 Oscars and Césars, with mention to Australia's Alliance Française French Film Festival currently touring. Plus, they begin their retrospective of the year 1998 with a discussion about the 1998 Berlin International Film Festival. Films discussed include: When Fall is Coming, The Story of Souleymane, Jim's Story, Borgo, Monsieur Aznavour, The Kingdom, Beating Hearts, The Boys, The Castle, Wag the Dog, Xiu Xiu: The Downsent Girl, Central Station, The Butcher Boy & Same Old Song.

Welcome to Season 04 Episode 10 - the "Desert Spring" edition - of Notes from the Aisle Seat, the podcast featuring news and information about the arts in  northern Chautauqua County NY, sponsored by the 1891 Fredonia Opera House. Your host is Tom Loughlin, SUNY Distinguished Teaching Professor and Chair Emeritus of Theatre and Dance at SUNY Fredonia. Guests on this episode include: Distinguished Professor Emeritus Alberto Rey discussing Dawn of Impressionism; Dr. Eliran Avni and Ms. Meredith McIntyre on the Fredonia Young Artist Recitals; and 4 members of the production crew for Twelfth Night from the Dept. of Theatre and Dance at SUNY Fredonia - Dr. Robert Deemer, Ms. Jessica Lustig, Ms. Amelia Elman, and Ms. Aidan Heaney. Notes from the Aisle Seat is available from most of your favorite podcast sites, as well as on the Opera House YouTube Channel. If you enjoy this podcast, please spread the word through your social media feeds, give us a link on your website, and consider becoming a follower by clicking the "Follow" button in the upper right-hand corner of our home page. If you have an arts event you'd like to publicize, hit us up at operahouse@fredopera.org and let us know what you have! Please give us at least one month's notice to facilitate timely scheduling. And don't forget to enter the giveaway for a pair of free tickets to the Long Point String Band Concert on Friday April 11th, as well as a $25 gift card from Central Station in Dunkirk. Entries must be received by Friday March 28th at 12 noon! Listen to the podcast for the question and answer. Then email your answer to operahouse@fredopera.org. Make sure you put the word "Giveaway" in the subject line. Thanks for listening! Time Stamps (Approximate) 02:01 - Prof. Alberto Rey/Dawn of Impressionism 18:25 - Dr. Eliran Avni/Ms. Meredith McIntyre/Fredonia Young Artist Recital 36:33 - Arts Calendar 38:50 - Dept. Theatre and Dance/Twelfth Night Media "Desert Flower", performed by Guitarra Azul, from the album Lotus Flower, composed by Stephano, 2012 April Preludes op. 13 (3rd movement), Vitezslava Kaprálová, composer, performed by Francis Kay, pianist, January 2023 Sonata No.15 in D major, Op.28 - Pastoral (Rondo); Ludwig von Beethoven, composer, performed by Schaghajegh Nosrati, piano, February 2024 Twelfth Night, produced by ITV (UK); Joan Plowright (Viola), Adrienne Corri (Olivia), 1970. Ghost Riders in the Sky, written by Stan Jones (1948), performed by Inka Gold, from a live concert at Mesa Regal Resort, Nov. 2024 Artist Links Department of Theatre and Dance, SUNY Fredonia Dr. Eliran Avni Prof. Alberto Rey   Box Office at SUNY Fredonia Lake Shore Center for the Arts Main Street Studios Ticket Website Register Here for the 1891 Run/Walk for the Opera House BECOME AN OPERA HOUSE MEMBER!          

Gus Lanzetta returns to the podcast from São Paulo to discuss two films by the Brazilian director Walter Salles: 1998's Central Station, starring Fernanda Montenegro, and his latest, Ainda Estou Aqui (I'm Still Here) starring Montenegro's daughter Fernanda Torres, both Academy Award-nominated for their respective performances.In Central Station Fernanda Montenegro gave one of the greatest screen performances of the 20th Century as Dora, a retired schoolteacher running a scam writing letters for illiterate people at Rio's train station who winds up rescuing an orphaned boy and transporting him to the far reaches of the country to try and reunite him with his long-lost father, in a film that reaches an overwhelming emotional power.Fernanda Torres received universal acclaim in Salles' latest film as Eunice Palva, the wife of a former leftist congressman in Rio before the coup d'état. When he is disappeared by the secret police and she is also interrogated for weeks by the state, their happy domestic life is shattered and Eunice devotes the rest of her life to social justice work and getting the state to finally admit what they did to her husband, refusing to give in to the fear, in a film that Torres has described as a “national therapy session” for a country that would wish to ignore this period in their history.Gus and I talk about these two acting dynamos, the Tropicalia movement, Burt Lancaster, Bugs Bunny, MF DOOM, crying at the movies, and our hopes that Brazil finally wins the first Oscar for their cinema. Is it coming home?Over 30% of all Junk Filter episodes are only available to patrons of the podcast. To support this show directly and to receive access to the entire back catalogue, consider becoming a patron for only $5.00 a month (U.S.) at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠patreon.com/junkfilterFollow Gus Lanzetta on Bluesky.Listen to Gus' podcast project that is relevant to the topic of the Brazilian dictatorship, Um Espião Silenciado (A Silenced Spy, in Portuguese)“Fernanda Torres Has Already Won” by Seth Abramovitch, for The Hollywood Reporter, February 15, 2025French trailer for Central Station (Walter Salles, 1998)Brazilian trailer for Ainda Estou Aqui (Walter Salles, 2024)International trailer for I'm Still Here (Walter Salles, 2024)“Minha Gente” (My People), Erasmo Carlos, 1972

Clinton Maynard and Robbie Slater argue that the A-League is facing a "cultural problem" as police charge two men with affray and release images of others who may assist in the investigation into the February 9 brawl at Central Station.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

THIS IS A PREVIEW PODCAST. NOT THE FULL REVIEW. Please check out the full podcast review on our Patreon Page by subscribing over at - https://www.patreon.com/NextBestPicture "I'm Still Here" had its world premiere at the 81st Venice International Film Festival, where it received positive reviews and has since gone on to win the Golden Globe Award for Best Actress in a Motion Picture – Drama for star Fernanda Torres and receive three Academy Award nominations, Best Picture (the first Brazilian-produced film ever to be nominated in that category), Best International Feature Film and Best Actress for Torres. Naturally, we here at Next Best Picture had to review Walter Salles's latest after such a pleasantly surprising awards season run. Here to join me for this Patreon exclusive review are Nadia Dalimonte, Josh Parham, and guest Miriam Spritzer. Please tune in as we discuss the real story the film is based on, Torres's performance, Salles's direction, the award-winning writing from Murilo Hauser Heitor Lorega based on Marcelo Rubens Paiva's memoir of the same name, the casting of Torres's mother Fernanda Montenegro (who previously was Oscar-nominated for her work on Salles's 1998 film "Central Station"), what this film means to Brazilians and more in our SPOILER-FILLED review. Thank you for all your support, and enjoy! Check out more on NextBestPicture.com Please subscribe on... Apple Podcasts - https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/negs-best-film-podcast/id1087678387?mt=2 Spotify - https://open.spotify.com/show/7IMIzpYehTqeUa1d9EC4jT YouTube - https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCWA7KiotcWmHiYYy6wJqwOw And be sure to help support us on Patreon for as little as $1 a month at https://www.patreon.com/NextBestPicture and listen to this podcast ad-free Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

With I'm Still Here garnering praise in this year's awards race, we thought it would be a great time to talk about Walter Salles – and, well, things turned out great with a surprise Best Picture nomination for Salles and company. After earning stateside honors with films like The Motorcycle Diaries and Central Station, Salles took on an ambitious and … Continue reading "327 – On the Road"

This week we're excited to present a conversation from the 62nd New York Film Festival with I'm Still Here director Walter Salles, lead actress Fernanda Torres, and Brazilian journalist & author Marcelo Rubens Paiva. This conversation was moderated by FLC Assistant Programmer Madeline Whittle. An NYFF62 Spotlight selection, I'm Still Here is now nominated for three Academy Awards, including Best Performance by an Actress in a Leading Role, Best International Feature, and Best Picture. One afternoon in 1971, Rubens Paiva, a former congressman and outspoken critic of Brazil's newly instituted military dictatorship, was taken from his home in Rio de Janeiro by government officials, told nothing more than that he must give a “deposition” to authorities, and disappeared. Adapted from his son Marcelo Rubens Paiva's memoir, this overwhelming, richly realized political drama from Walter Salles (The Motorcycle Diaries) stays tightly wedded to the perspective of Rubens's wife, Eunice (a shattering Fernanda Torres), whose indefatigable search for the truth about her husband would stretch out for decades. A devastating true story, I'm Still Here is exhilarating in its portrayal of human tenacity in the face of injustice. Featuring a deeply affecting appearance from Fernanda Montenegro, Oscar nominee for Salles's Central Station. A Sony Pictures Classics release.

"I'm Still Here" had its world premiere at the 2024 Venice International Film Festival, where it received strong reviews for its true story about a mother (Fernanda Torres) and activist coping with the forced disappearance of her husband, the dissident politician Rubens Paiva (Selton Mello), during the military dictatorship in Brazil. Adapted from Marcelo Rubens Paiva's 2015 memoir of the same name, the script won the Best Screenplay award at Venice and has gone on to receive multiple nominations for Best International Feature Film (it is Brazil's official selection for the Oscar in this category at the 97th Academy Awards) and won Torres the Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Drama. Director Walter Salles (who previously directed Torres's mother, Fernanda Montenegro, who also stars in this film, to an Oscar-nominated performance in "Central Station" in 1998), Torres and Mello were all kind enough to spend some time talking with Ema Sasic and me about their work on the film, which you can listen to below. Please be sure to check out the film, which is now playing in theaters from Sony Pictures Classics and is up for your consideration at this year's Academy Awards in all eligible categories, including Best International Feature, Best Actress (Torres), and Best Adapted Screenplay. Thank you, and enjoy! Check out more on NextBestPicture.com Please subscribe on... Apple Podcasts - https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/negs-best-film-podcast/id1087678387?mt=2 Spotify - https://open.spotify.com/show/7IMIzpYehTqeUa1d9EC4jT YouTube - https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCWA7KiotcWmHiYYy6wJqwOw And be sure to help support us on Patreon for as little as $1 a month at https://www.patreon.com/NextBestPicture and listen to this podcast ad-free Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Ryan Walker is CEO and Managing Partner of Central Station, an independent creative agency based in Toronto. Central Station has been at the forefront of blending experiential marketing, digital innovation, and AI-driven strategies for top global brands like Spin Master, Nike, and Dior. Ryan brings a unique perspective to the conversation around disruption in marketing. With a background in engineering and over 20 years in the creative industry, he's led Central Station in revolutionizing how brands engage with consumers through immersive, tech-forward experiences. Ryan will give us insights into how technology is transforming the way brands build relationships with consumers and how agencies like Central Station are pushing the boundaries of marketing in the digital age. Join Our Community of Canadian Entrepreneurs! Entrepreneurs are the driving force behind Canada's economy, and we're here to support them every step of the way. For exclusive insights, tips, and success stories from Canada's top business leaders, subscribe to our YouTube channel and follow us on Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn, and Twitter. Want to stay ahead with the latest #entrepreneur podcasts, business strategies, and news? Don't miss out—subscribe to our bi-weekly newsletter for updates delivered straight to your inbox! Join thousands of Canadian entrepreneurs who rely on us for the resources they need to succeed.

Sadly, the past is gone and cannot be changed – nor can we see into the future to prepare for what's to come. We live in the here and now, and that is a constant. Or… is it? We'll look at the mystery of time slips. Darkness Syndicate members get the ad-free version. https://weirddarkness.com/syndicateInfo on the next LIVE SCREAM event. https://weirddarkness.com/LiveScreamInfo on the next WEIRDO WATCH PARTY event. https://weirddarkness.com/TVIN THIS EPISODE: Edvard Munch's painting “The Scream” from 1892 is a masterpiece of the macabre – and when you hear him describe the piece and his inspiration for it, you'll realize the painting is a lot closer to the artist's life than anyone would want. (Curing Edvard Munch) *** Have you ever wondered why ghosts in the movies are so often female? What makes female ghosts scarier than male ghosts? I mean aside from that whole “a woman scorned” thing? We'll look at some famous – and infamous female ghosts and urban legends around the world. (Infamous Female Ghosts and Urban Legends) *** Sadly, the past is gone and cannot be changed – nor can we see into the future to prepare for what's to come. We live in the here and now, and that is a constant. Or… is it? We'll look at the mystery of time slips. (On The Edge of Time) *** AND MORE!CHAPTERS & TIME STAMPS (All Times Approximate)…00:00:00.000 = Disclaimer and Cold Open00:01:03.917 = Show Intro00:03:02.519 = On The Edge of Time00:23:11.068 = Curing Edvard Munch00:30:48.266 = Infamous Female Ghosts and Urban Legends00:44:14.523 = Something Above Us (From a Weird Darkness listener)00:49:23.953 = Show CloseSOURCES AND REFERENCES FROM THE EPISODE…“On The Edge of Time” by Tim Swartz for UFO Review: https://weirddarkness.tiny.us/jahhwfbf“Curing Edvard Munch” by Dr. Romeo Vitelli for Providentia: https://weirddarkness.tiny.us/vbp5rzsw“Infamous Female Ghosts and Urban Legends” posted at BuggedSpace.com: https://weirddarkness.tiny.us/3j2smmj3Weird Darkness theme by Alibi Music Library. = = = = =(Over time links seen above may become invalid, disappear, or have different content. I always make sure to give authors credit for the material I use whenever possible. If I somehow overlooked doing so for a story, or if a credit is incorrect, please let me know and I will rectify it in these show notes immediately. Some links included above may benefit me financially through qualifying purchases.)= = = = ="I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness." — John 12:46= = = = =WeirdDarkness® is a registered trademark. Copyright ©2024, Weird Darkness.= = = = =Originally aired: June 23, 2021SOURCES PAGE: https://weirddarkness.com/TimeSlipCop

Podcasts, reviews, interviews, essays, and more at the Ancillary Review of Books.Please consider supporting ARB's Patreon!Credits:Guest: Anna McFarlaneTitle: The This by Adam RobertsHost: Jake Casella BrookinsMusic by Giselle Gabrielle GarciaArtwork by Rob PattersonOpening poem by Bhartṛhari, translated by John BroughReferences:Anna's books, including Cyberpunk Culture and Psychology, The Routledge Companion to Cyberpunk Culture, Fifty Key Figures in Cyberpunk Culture, and Adam Roberts: Critical EssaysMary Butts' “Mappa Mundi”Jordan S. Carroll's Speculative WhitenessAdam Roberts' The Thing Itself, Lake of Darkness, New Model Army, and nonfictionChristopher PriestThe Thing, dir. John CarpenterKant's Critique of Pure ReasonDeleuze's concept of The FoldNabokov's Pale FireMichael Swanwick Stations of the Tide & Vacuum FlowersCory Doctorow & Greg EganNeal Stephenson's Snow CrashWilliam Gibson's NeuromancerPatricia Lockwood's No One Is Talking About ThisRobert A. Heinlein's Starship TroopersJoe Haldeman's The Forever WarStar Trek's BorgE.M. Forster's “The Machine Stops”George Orwell's 1984Hegel's The Phenomenology of Spirit"The sky above the port was the color of a television tuned to a dead channel"The idea of the pharmakonThe Big Read podcast on The ThisShulamith Firestone's The Dialectic of SexOttessa Moshfegh's My Year of Rest and RelaxationRobot monkey/wiremother experimentsRoberts's review of The Book of ElsewhereRoberts on BlueskyBlack MirrorThomas Disch's 334 & Camp ConcentrationDavid LynchPeter Watts' Blindsight & EchopraxiaKurt Vonnegut Jr.'s Cat's Cradle, Slaughterhouse-Five, & GalapagosVonnegut thing about delivering a letterVonnegut's “Biafra: A People Betrayed”Fix-up novelsJo Walton's “On Selecting the Top Ten Genre Books of the First Quarter of the Century”Casella's essay on This Is How You Lose the Time WarLavie Tidhar's Central Station, The Circumference of the World, Osama, A Man Lies DreamingA line from Hegel to Marx to Darko SuvinThe conclusion to Walter Pater's The RenaissanceMolly Templeton's “A Modest Request for a Little More Genre Chaos”Young Frankenstein dir. Mel BrooksAnna on BlueskyThe Edinburgh Companion to Science Fiction and the Medical Humanities

Welcome to the CanadianSME Small Business Podcast! I'm your host, and today we're diving into experiential marketing, uncovering how brands can create meaningful and memorable connections with their audiences. Joining us is Ryan Walker, Partner and President at Central Station, a trailblazer in brand innovation with over 25 years of experience. Ryan has collaborated with iconic brands like Coca-Cola, Toyota, and Nike, positioning Central Station as a leader in bridging digital and physical marketing worlds.Ryan shares insights on crafting impactful brand experiences, fostering client relationships, and maintaining a vibrant agency culture.Key Highlights:

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A three-day gathering on Dunghutti country in New South Wales will mark 100 years since the opening of the notorious Kinchela Boys Home. Survivors and descendants of survivors from Sydney boarded a train from Central Station, travelling back to the site of the home.

Ross Stevenson has delivered an outstanding entry into the Rumour File this morning, which he says is 100 per cent true!See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Find out how much area cities, school districts, and other taxing entities plan to assess in taxes to provide local services and infrastructure at upcoming public hearings. Property owners and taxpayers can offer their concerns and opinions at these hearings on budgets and tax rates that will affect them. The meetings are free and open to the public: •Wilson County Emergency Services District (ESD) 5, tax-rate hearing — Tuesday, Sept. 10, 6 p.m., Central Station, 1350 Hospital Blvd., Floresville; proposed tax rate is 10 cents per 0 of taxable property value, the same as the current rate; however, the average...Article Link

Nyheterna Radio 17:00

Area cities, school districts, and other taxing entities are preparing to tap your wallet to support local services and infrastructure. Property owners and taxpayers can offer their concerns and opinions at the following public hearings on budgets and tax rates that will affect them. These meetings are free and open to the public: •Wilson County Emergency Services District (ESD) 4 tax-rate hearing — Tuesday, Sept. 3, 6 p.m., Central Station, 1402 Hospital Blvd., Floresville; proposed tax rate is 10 cents per 0 of taxable property value, up from the current rate of 9.5184 cents per 0; the average tax bill...Article Link

A nasty incident occurred at Melbourne Central yesterday, with a security guard physically assaulted by four youths, who were known to the guard. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Following an extraordinary evening on Friday, I found it necessary to take the train back home. However, Transport Sydney Trains experienced a service disruption, leaving numerous passengers stranded at Central Station. To compound the situation, a discourteous train guard instructed me to leave the area. Furthermore, Transport Sydney Trains failed to arrange alternative bus services for customers seeking to return home.

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A round-up of the main headlines in Sweden on July 11th 2024. You can hear more reports on our homepage www.radiosweden.se, or in the app Sveriges Radio Play Presenter: Mitchell CordnerProducer: Kris Boswell

In this episode St. Paul City Council Member Rebecca Noecker talks to F&C reporter Dan Netter about the Central Station area and revitalization efforts in downtown St. Paul.

This week on And the Runner-Up Is, Kevin welcomes back Gold Derby senior editor Joyce Eng to discuss the 1998 Oscar race for Best Actress, where Gwyneth Paltrow won for her performance in "Shakespeare in Love," beating Cate Blanchett in "Elizabeth," Fernanda Montenegro in "Central Station," Meryl Streep in "One True Thing," and Emily Watson in "Hilary and Jackie." We discuss all of these nominated performances and determine who we think was the runner-up to Paltrow. 0:00 - 8:37 - Introduction 8:38 - 29:45 - Cate Blanchett 29:46 - 47:59 - Fernanda Montenegro 48:00 - 1:09:25 - Meryl Streep 1:09:26 - 1:27:24 - Emily Watson 1:27:25 - 1:49:15 - Gwyneth Paltrow 1:49:16 - 2:54:20 - Why Gwyneth Paltrow won / Twitter questions 2:54:21 - 3:00:39 - Who was the runner-up? Buy And the Runner-Up Is merch at https://www.teepublic.com/stores/and-the-runner-up-is?ref_id=24261! Support And the Runner-Up Is on Patreon at patreon.com/andtherunnerupis! Follow Kevin Jacobsen on Twitter Follow Joyce Eng on Twitter Follow And the Runner-Up Is on Twitter and Instagram Theme/End Music: "Diamonds" by Iouri Sazonov Additional Music: "Storming Cinema Ident" by Edward Blakeley Artwork: Brian O'Meara

Fluent Fiction - Danish: Navigating Copenhagen's Bike Paths: A Tale of Lessons, Friendship, and Resilience Find the full episode transcript, vocabulary words, and more:fluentfiction.org/navigating-copenhagens-bike-paths-a-tale-of-lessons-friendship-and-resilience Story Transcript:Da: I København, en af Europas mest cykelvenlige byer, var forvirringen begyndt at sprede sig på Lars' ansigt. Han strammede grebet om sit cykelstyr, mens han stirrede på den snorlige cykelsti, der strakte sig ud foran ham. Det var Lars' første gang her, her i ræset på to hjul, og frygten for det ukendte kunne ses i hans blågrønne øjne.En: In Copenhagen, one of Europe's most bike-friendly cities, confusion had started to spread across Lars' face. He tightened his grip on his bike handlebars as he stared at the neatly laid-out bike path stretching out in front of him. It was Lars' first time here, in the two-wheeled race, and the fear of the unknown could be seen in his teal eyes.Da: Lars, en ung mand på 25 år, var flyttet til København fra en lille landsby i Jylland. Det var både underholdende og skræmmende at se så mange cykler på ét sted. Himlen var dækket af grå skyer, og vinden blæste Lars' hår tilbage, mens han så på de forbipasserende ryttere. Han stod der, ved Herlev Hospital, og havde den længste vej hjem til Hovedbanegården.En: Lars, a 25-year-old man, had moved to Copenhagen from a small village in Jutland. It was both entertaining and frightening to see so many bikes in one place. The sky was covered with grey clouds, and the wind blew back Lars' hair as he watched the passing riders. He stood there, by Herlev Hospital, facing the longest way back home to the Central Station.Da: "Lad os komme i gang, Lars," sagde Signe og smilte hjerteligt. Signe var Lars' eneste ven i København, en veninde fra gymnasietiden.En: "Let's get going, Lars," said Signe, smiling warmly. Signe was Lars' only friend in Copenhagen, a friend from their high school days.Da: Hun var vant til trafikken i København og cyklede ubesværet gennem gaderne, mens Lars gispede efter vejret i hendes hale. "Lars, du skal følge cyklisternes interne regler," råbte hun over skulderen, da de kørte over Lygten.En: She was accustomed to the traffic in Copenhagen and cycled effortlessly through the streets, while Lars struggled to catch his breath in her wake. "Lars, you need to follow the cyclists' unofficial rules," she yelled over her shoulder as they crossed Lygten.Da: Cykelstierne i København føltes som en labyrint for den unge Jyde. Råbene fra de andre cyklister kunne tit virke forvirrende, og Signe var foran ham og fjernere for hvert pedaltråd. "Hastighed, Lars," råbte hun tilbage, mens hun susede forbi en jalousiskoddedør.En: The bike paths in Copenhagen felt like a maze for the young Jutlander. The shouts from other cyclists could often be confusing, and Signe was getting farther ahead with each pedal stroke. "Speed up, Lars," she shouted back as she zoomed past a jealous green door.Da: Lars' hjerte hamrede i brystet, mens han forsøgte at navigere gennem Nørrebrogade. De måtte nu over Dronning Louises Bro og ind på Købmagergade. Men Lars kunne allerede mærke sveden på panden.En: Lars' heart pounded in his chest as he tried to navigate through Nørrebrogade. They had to cross Queen Louise's Bridge and head towards Købmagergade. But Lars could already feel the sweat on his forehead.Da: Uheldigvis tog Lars en forkert drejning og endte på H.C. Andersens Boulevard. Bilkøer, travle fodgængere og ivrige cyklister, var alt for meget for den stressede Lars. I hans panik begyndte han at cykle imod trafikken.En: Unfortunately, Lars took a wrong turn and ended up on H.C. Andersens Boulevard. Traffic jams, bustling pedestrians, and eager cyclists were all too much for the stressed Lars. In his panic, he started cycling against the traffic flow.Da: "Hun har sikkert ret," tænkte Lars. Men hans stædighed gjorde, at han fortsatte. Han ville ikke vise sin sårbarhed, selv om han følte sig tabt i byens larm og lyde.En: "She's probably right," thought Lars. But his stubbornness made him continue. He didn't want to show his vulnerability, even though he felt lost in the city's noise and sounds.Da: Men så skete det uundgåelige. En politibetjent stoppede ham og advarede ham om, at han kørte den forkerte vej. Følelsen af skam farvede hans kinder røde. Alle de andre cyklister stirrede på ham.En: But then the inevitable happened. A police officer stopped him and warned him that he was cycling in the wrong direction. The feeling of shame colored his cheeks red. All the other cyclists stared at him.Da: Da Signe endelig fandt Lars, trøstede hun ham. Hun fortalte ham, at de alle har været der. Signe, der var en sand københavner, kendte byen som sin egen bukselomme.En: When Signe finally found Lars, she comforted him. She told him that they had all been there. Signe, a true Copenhagener, knew the city like the back of her hand.Da: Da de endelig nåede Hovedbanegården, var Lars' ansigt aflastet. Hver eneste op-og-ned tur var det hele værd. Han var nu en del af Københavns cykelkultur, og det føltes godt. Han vidste, at han havde begået fejl, men det var en del af processen.En: When they finally reached the Central Station, Lars' face eased. Every up-and-down ride was worth it. He was now part of Copenhagen's bike culture, and it felt good. He knew he had made mistakes, but it was all part of the learning process.Da: Det gjorde ikke noget, at han var blevet stoppet af politi, eller han havde taget nogle forkerte drejninger. I sidste ende lærte han om byens charme, dens livlige gader og dens smukke cykelkultur. Og han havde Signe ved hans side - hans støtte og guide. Nu var det ikke længere ligeså skræmmende at ride på cykelstierne, som det var i begyndelsen. Han vidste, at han skulle falde for at lære. For i København, er det kun, når du falder, at du virkelig lærer at cykle.En: It didn't matter that he had been stopped by the police or taken a few wrong turns. In the end, he had learned about the city's charm, its lively streets, and its beautiful bike culture. And he had Signe by his side – his support and guide. Now, it wasn't as daunting to ride on the bike paths as it was in the beginning. He knew he had to fall to learn. Because in Copenhagen, it's only when you fall that you truly learn how to ride.Da: Og Lars, den stædige jyde, var parat til at falle og opstå igen, igen og igen, indtil han blev mester i kunsten at cykle i Københavns gader.En: And Lars, the stubborn Jutlander, was ready to fall and rise again, again and again, until he became a master in the art of cycling in Copenhagen's streets. Vocabulary Words:streets: gaderbike: cykelCopenhagen: KøbenhavnLars: Larscity: bysign: tegnfriend: venpath: stifear: frygtrules: reglertraffic: trafikmistakes: fejlguide: guideyoung: ungbicycle: cykelpedestrians: fodgængerecycling: cyklingvulnerability: sårbarhedcharm: charmecyclists: cyklistershame: skamlearning: læringfalls: falderjutlander: jydepolice: politimistakes: fejlstreets: gaderturn: drejningmistakes: fejlpattern: mønster

In this episode, we talk with the author of one of my favorite new novels of last year and one that will probably top my list next year. Lavie Tidhar is the World Fantasy Award winning author of Osama (2011), Seiun nominated The Violent Century (2013), the Jerwood Fiction Uncovered Prize winning A Man Lies Dreaming (2014), the Campbell Award, Neukom Prize and Chinese Nebula winning Central Station (2016), Prix Planete SF winner and Locus and Campbell award nominated Unholy Land (2018), British Fantasy Award nominated By Force Alone (2021), Philip K. Dick Award nominated The Escapement (2021), The Hood (2021), Maror (2022) and Locus Award nominated Neom (2022). We talk about Lavie Tidhar's Neom and The Circumference of the World two modern Science Fiction novels that have a golden age feel. In this interview,, we talk about Lavie's novels, his process and nerd out on our favorite Science Fiction.

Lavie Tidhar, author of too many books to mention, but most recently MAROR and ADAMA, which will soon be joined by the third instalment of this thematic trilogy, SIX LIVES. Lavie chats about:Writing in different genres and the difference of publishing in eachDiscovering writing through his travellingWriting about families and sagasWhat makes something a trilogy, even though the stories might not be directly connectedThe balance of writing what you want to write, vs what your publisher would like you to write.How science fiction can give you more freedom to be ‘truthful' than writing something set in our worldLavie's reading recommendations:The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCulloughAnything by James ClavellSilver Nitrate by Silvia Moreno-GarciaGuest Author: Lavie Tidhar Twitter: @lavietidhar IG:@lavietidhar Books: Adama by Lavie Tidhar, Maror by Lavie Tidhar, The Circumference of the World by Lavie Tidhar, Neom by Lavie Tidhar, The Escapement by Lavie Tidhar, The Hood by Lavie Tidhar, By Force Alone by Lavie Tidhar, Candy by Lavie Tidhar, Central Station by Lavie Tidhar, Unholy Land by Lavie Tidhar, A Man Lies Dreaming by Lavie Tidhar, A Man Lies Dreaming by Lavie Tidhar, The Violent Century by Lavie Tidhar, Osama by Lavie, Art and War by Lavie TidharHost: Kate Sawyer Twitter: @katesawyer IG: @mskatesawyer Books: The Stranding by Kate Sawyer & This Family Novel Experience with Kate Sawyer is recorded and produced by Kate Sawyer - GET IN TOUCH or visit https://www.mskatesawyer.com/novelexperiencepodcast for more information.

Fluent Fiction - Dutch: Lost and Found in Amsterdam: A Day of Adventure and New Friendships Find the full episode transcript, vocabulary words, and more:fluentfiction.org/lost-and-found-in-amsterdam-a-day-of-adventure-and-new-friendships Story Transcript:Nl: Het was een heldere dag in Amsterdam toen Jeroen en Sophie op het Centraal Station aankwamen.En: It was a clear day in Amsterdam when Jeroen and Sophie arrived at Central Station.Nl: Ze waren toeristen, op zoek naar avontuur.En: They were tourists, in search of adventure.Nl: De stad, met haar kronkelende kanaaltjes en talloze bruggetjes, leek een doolhof.En: The city, with its winding canals and countless bridges, seemed like a maze.Nl: Dat bracht hen flink in de war.En: This greatly confused them.Nl: Aan de rand van een klarinet klinkend kanaal zagen ze een jongen zitten.En: On the edge of a clarinet-playing canal, they saw a boy sitting.Nl: Zijn naam was Daan.En: His name was Daan.Nl: Hij woonde zijn hele leven in Amsterdam.En: He had lived his whole life in Amsterdam.Nl: Daan kende de stad als zijn eigen broekzak.En: Daan knew the city like the back of his hand.Nl: Jeroen en Sophie vroegen Daan om hulp.En: Jeroen and Sophie asked Daan for help.Nl: Ze legden uit dat ze waren verdwaald en een beetje overweldigd door het web van kanaaltjes.En: They explained that they were lost and a bit overwhelmed by the web of canals.Nl: Daan luisterde, knikte en zei: "Ik kan helpen.En: Daan listened, nodded, and said, "I can help."Nl: "Hij nam hen mee op een tour door de stad.En: He took them on a tour of the city.Nl: Ze liepen langs de Prinsengracht, de Herengracht, en de Keizersgracht.En: They walked along the Prinsengracht, the Herengracht, and the Keizersgracht.Nl: Daan vertelde verhalen over de geschiedenis van deze grachten en de stad.En: Daan told stories about the history of these canals and the city.Nl: Jeroen en Sophie voelden zich beter.En: Jeroen and Sophie felt better.Nl: Ze waren niet meer verloren.En: They were no longer lost.Nl: Ze maakten foto's van prachtige huizen, glimlachend tegen de achtergrond van de ondergaande zon.En: They took pictures of beautiful houses, smiling against the backdrop of the setting sun.Nl: Ze aten patat bij een plaatselijke kraam en lachten om de meeuwen die om de kruimels bedelden.En: They ate fries at a local stall and laughed at the seagulls begging for crumbs.Nl: Daan wist de beste plek voor oliebollen.En: Daan knew the best place for oliebollen.Nl: Ze proefden de zoete deegwaren, warm en knapperig.En: They tasted the sweet pastries, warm and crispy.Nl: In de avond, toen de lantaarns naast de kanalen licht begonnen te verspreiden, bracht Daan hen terug naar het Centraal Station.En: In the evening, as the lanterns along the canals began to spread light, Daan brought them back to Central Station.Nl: Hij wees hun de juiste trein naar hun hotel.En: He pointed them to the right train to their hotel.Nl: "Dank je, Daan!En: "Thank you, Daan!"Nl: " zeiden ze.En: they said.Nl: Hij glimlachte, zwaaide hen uit en keek de trein na tot die uit het zicht verdween.En: He smiled, waved them goodbye, and watched the train until it disappeared from sight.Nl: Vanaf die dag waren Jeroen en Sophie niet meer bang om te verdwalen.En: From that day on, Jeroen and Sophie were no longer afraid to get lost.Nl: Want Amsterdam was geen doolhof meer voor hen, maar een stad vol avontuur en dankzij Daan wisten ze nu de weg.En: Because Amsterdam was no longer a maze for them, but a city full of adventure and thanks to Daan, they now knew the way.Nl: Ze beloofden terug te komen voor meer avontuur, dit keer als vrienden van de stad, niet als verdwaalde toeristen.En: They promised to come back for more adventure, this time as friends of the city, not as lost tourists.Nl: En zo eindigde hun eerste dag in Amsterdam, verdwaald en dan gevonden, met nieuwe vriendschap en mooie herinneringen.En: And so, their first day in Amsterdam ended, lost and then found, with new friendship and beautiful memories. Vocabulary Words:It: Hetwas: wasa: eenclear: heldereday: dagin: inAmsterdam: Amsterdamwhen: toenJeroen: Jeroenand: enSophie: Sophiearrived: aankwamenat: opCentral: CentraalStation: StationThey: Zewere: warentourists: toeristenin: opsearch: zoekof: naaradventure: avontuurThe: Decity: stadwith: metits: haarwinding: kronkelendecanals: kanaaltjesand: encountless: talloze

Fluent Fiction - Dutch: Lost in Amsterdam: A Journey of Kindness and Friendship Find the full episode transcript, vocabulary words, and more:fluentfiction.org/lost-in-amsterdam-a-journey-of-kindness-and-friendship Story Transcript:Nl: Het grote avontuur van Daan in Amsterdam was begonnen.En: Daan's great adventure in Amsterdam had begun.Nl: Beginnend bij het Centraal Station, keek Daan verwonderd om zich heen.En: Starting at the Central Station, Daan looked around in awe.Nl: Grote boten, de blauwe hemel, veel mensen.En: Big boats, the blue sky, lots of people.Nl: Alles was zo interessant.En: Everything was so interesting.Nl: Maar Daan raakte verdwaald.En: But Daan got lost.Nl: Hij liep en liep, van de ene straat naar de andere.En: He walked and walked, from one street to another.Nl: De grachten waren zo mooi, maar oh zo verwarrend.En: The canals were so beautiful, but oh so confusing.Nl: "Help, ik ben verdwaald", zei Daan tegen vreemden.En: "Help, I'm lost," Daan said to strangers.Nl: "Kan je me naar het Centraal Station brengen?En: "Can you take me to the Central Station?"Nl: " Maar de woorden van de mensen waren moeilijk.En: But the people's words were difficult.Nl: Nederlands was zo ingewikkeld!En: Dutch was so complicated!Nl: Ze spraken snel, gebruikten moeilijke woorden.En: They spoke quickly, used difficult words.Nl: Ondanks dat Daan ze had gevraagd langzamer te spreken, kon hij nog steeds niet begrijpen wat ze zeiden.En: Despite asking them to speak slower, he still couldn't understand what they were saying.Nl: Daan was bang.En: Daan was scared.Nl: Zijn hart klopte snel.En: His heart was beating fast.Nl: Hij had honger en het werd donker.En: He was hungry and it was getting dark.Nl: De lichten van de stad twinkelden, maar Daan kon de weg nog steeds niet vinden.En: The lights of the city were twinkling, but Daan still couldn't find his way.Nl: Hij miste zijn huis, zijn zachte bed.En: He missed his home, his soft bed.Nl: Terwijl verdriet hem overspoelde, zat Daan dicht bij de gracht om uit te rusten.En: As sadness overwhelmed him, Daan sat close to the canal to rest.Nl: Toen zag hij een klein meisje.En: Then he saw a little girl.Nl: Haar naam was Marie.En: Her name was Marie.Nl: Ze was lief en zag dat Daan hulp nodig had.En: She was kind and could see that Daan needed help.Nl: "Bent u verdwaald?En: "Are you lost?"Nl: " vroeg ze.En: she asked.Nl: "Ja," zei Daan.En: "Yes," said Daan.Nl: "Ik begrijp de weg niet".En: "I don't understand the way."Nl: Marie glimlachte.En: Marie smiled.Nl: "Ik zal helpen.En: "I will help."Nl: "Samen liepen ze door de straatjes.En: Together, they walked through the streets.Nl: Ze gingen over bruggetjes, door de smalle straten.En: They went over little bridges, through the narrow streets.Nl: Ze kwamen langs snoepwinkels, oude gebouwen en fietsen.En: They passed candy shops, old buildings, and bicycles.Nl: Zoveel fietsen!En: So many bicycles!Nl: Marie legde dingen eenvoudig uit, ze sprak langzaam.En: Marie explained things simply, she spoke slowly.Nl: Ze wees naar het station.En: She pointed to the station.Nl: "Daar is het Centraal Station", zei ze.En: "There is the Central Station," she said.Nl: Met een brede glimlach op zijn gezicht bedankte Daan de kleine Marie.En: With a big smile on his face, Daan thanked little Marie.Nl: Hij was zo blij, hij was niet meer bang.En: He was so happy, he was no longer scared.Nl: Hij had zijn weg teruggevonden.En: He had found his way back.Nl: Maar bovenal, hij had een nieuwe vriend gemaakt.En: But more importantly, he had made a new friend.Nl: Dit was zijn avontuur in Amsterdam.En: This was his adventure in Amsterdam.Nl: Het was eng, maar uiteindelijk ook leuk.En: It was scary, but ultimately fun.Nl: Nu kon Daan naar huis terugkeren met een geweldig verhaal te vertellen.En: Now Daan could return home with a great story to tell.Nl: Hij leerde iets belangrijks: zelfs als je verdwaald en bang bent, is er altijd wel iemand vriendelijk in de buurt om je te helpen.En: He learned something important: even if you're lost and scared, there is always someone kind nearby to help you.Nl: Eind goed, al goed voor Daan en zijn Amsterdamse avontuur.En: All's well that ends well for Daan and his Amsterdam adventure. Vocabulary Words:Daan: DaanAmsterdam: AmsterdamCentral Station: Centraal Stationboats: botenblue sky: blauwe hemellots of people: veel menseninteresting: interessantlost: verdwaaldwalked: liepstreet: straatcanals: grachtenbeautiful: mooiconfusing: verwarrendHelp: Helplost: verdwaaldspeak: sprekenquickly: sneldifficult: moeilijkDutch: Nederlandscomplicated: ingewikkeldasked: vroegunderstand: begrijpenscared: bangheart: hartbeating: kloppendhungry: hongerdark: donkercity: stadtwinkling: twinkeldenfind: vinden

Welcome to episode 076 of the Green Healthy Places podcast in which we discuss the the of wellbeing and sustainability in real estate and hospitality today. I'm your host Matt Morley and in this episode I'm in Milan, Italy but the tables have been turned. This time around I'm on the other side of the microphone, answering the questions.In front of me is Stefania Lorenzi from the marketing department of the Bolton Group. This recording took place in their via Pirelli offices, close to the Central Station in Milan, where I've been working with their executive team and project architects on implementing a range of green, healthy office strategies over recent months.The Bolton Group is a family-owned, Italian multinational with over 11,000 employees in 60 different offices. They are present in 150 countries with over 60 household brands in the portfolio, from products for the home, to food, adhesives, personal care and beauty care.We discuss the basics of nature-inspired biophilic design, its relationship with sustainability, the benefits of a nature-infused indoor work environment and some tips on how to integrate a little biophilia into our daily routines at home.This is just a 15-minute chat, nothing complicated but hopefully relevant as a basic primer on the key principles I'm working with when creating a green, healthy office building.Thanks to the Bolton Group for sharing the audio, this is a company with a strong sustainability program and genuine interest in implementing a healthy building strategy at their company headquarters, so kudos to them! https://www.boltongroup.net/ https://www.greenhealthyplaces.com/

  The Haunter of the Dark By H. P. Lovecraft (Dedicated to Robert Bloch) I have seen the dark universe yawning Where the black planets roll without aim— Where they roll in their horror unheeded, Without knowledge or lustre or name. —Nemesis. Cautious investigators will hesitate to challenge the common belief that Robert Blake was killed by lightning, or by some profound nervous shock derived from an electrical discharge. It is true that the window he faced was unbroken, but Nature has shewn herself capable of many freakish performances. The expression on his face may easily have arisen from some obscure muscular source unrelated to anything he saw, while the entries in his diary are clearly the result of a fantastic imagination aroused by certain local superstitions and by certain old matters he had uncovered. As for the anomalous conditions at the deserted church on Federal Hill—the shrewd analyst is not slow in attributing them to some charlatanry, conscious or unconscious, with at least some of which Blake was secretly connected. For after all, the victim was a writer and painter wholly devoted to the field of myth, dream, terror, and superstition, and avid in his quest for scenes and effects of a bizarre, spectral sort. His earlier stay in the city—a visit to a strange old man as deeply given to occult and forbidden lore as he—had ended amidst death and flame, and it must have been some morbid instinct which drew him back from his home in Milwaukee. He may have known of the old stories despite his statements to the contrary in the diary, and his death may have nipped in the bud some stupendous hoax destined to have a literary reflection. Among those, however, who have examined and correlated all this evidence, there remain several who cling to less rational and commonplace theories. They are inclined to take much of Blake's diary at its face value, and point significantly to certain facts such as the undoubted genuineness of the old church record, the verified existence of the disliked and unorthodox Starry Wisdom sect prior to 1877, the recorded disappearance of an inquisitive reporter named Edwin M. Lillibridge in 1893, and—above all—the look of monstrous, transfiguring fear on the face of the young writer when he died. It was one of these believers who, moved to fanatical extremes, threw into the bay the curiously angled stone and its strangely adorned metal box found in the old church steeple—the black windowless steeple, and not the tower where Blake's diary said those things originally were. Though widely censured both officially and unofficially, this man—a reputable physician with a taste for odd folklore—averred that he had rid the earth of something too dangerous to rest upon it. Between these two schools of opinion the reader must judge for himself. The papers have given the tangible details from a sceptical angle, leaving for others the drawing of the picture as Robert Blake saw it—or thought he saw it—or pretended to see it. Now, studying the diary closely, dispassionately, and at leisure, let us summarise the dark chain of events from the expressed point of view of their chief actor. Young Blake returned to Providence in the winter of 1934–5, taking the upper floor of a venerable dwelling in a grassy court off College Street—on the crest of the great eastward hill near the Brown University campus and behind the marble John Hay Library. It was a cosy and fascinating place, in a little garden oasis of village-like antiquity where huge, friendly cats sunned themselves atop a convenient shed. The square Georgian house had a monitor roof, classic doorway with fan carving, small-paned windows, and all the other earmarks of early nineteenth-century workmanship. Inside were six-panelled doors, wide floor-boards, a curving colonial staircase, white Adam-period mantels, and a rear set of rooms three steps below the general level. Blake's study, a large southwest chamber, overlooked the front garden on one side, while its west windows—before one of which he had his desk—faced off from the brow of the hill and commanded a splendid view of the lower town's outspread roofs and of the mystical sunsets that flamed behind them. On the far horizon were the open countryside's purple slopes. Against these, some two miles away, rose the spectral hump of Federal Hill, bristling with huddled roofs and steeples whose remote outlines wavered mysteriously, taking fantastic forms as the smoke of the city swirled up and enmeshed them. Blake had a curious sense that he was looking upon some unknown, ethereal world which might or might not vanish in dream if ever he tried to seek it out and enter it in person. Having sent home for most of his books, Blake bought some antique furniture suitable to his quarters and settled down to write and paint—living alone, and attending to the simple housework himself. His studio was in a north attic room, where the panes of the monitor roof furnished admirable lighting. During that first winter he produced five of his best-known short stories—“The Burrower Beneath”, “The Stairs in the Crypt”, “Shaggai”, “In the Vale of Pnath”, and “The Feaster from the Stars”—and painted seven canvases; studies of nameless, unhuman monsters, and profoundly alien, non-terrestrial landscapes. At sunset he would often sit at his desk and gaze dreamily off at the outspread west—the dark towers of Memorial Hall just below, the Georgian court-house belfry, the lofty pinnacles of the downtown section, and that shimmering, spire-crowned mound in the distance whose unknown streets and labyrinthine gables so potently provoked his fancy. From his few local acquaintances he learned that the far-off slope was a vast Italian quarter, though most of the houses were remnants of older Yankee and Irish days. Now and then he would train his field-glasses on that spectral, unreachable world beyond the curling smoke; picking out individual roofs and chimneys and steeples, and speculating upon the bizarre and curious mysteries they might house. Even with optical aid Federal Hill seemed somehow alien, half fabulous, and linked to the unreal, intangible marvels of Blake's own tales and pictures. The feeling would persist long after the hill had faded into the violet, lamp-starred twilight, and the court-house floodlights and the red Industrial Trust beacon had blazed up to make the night grotesque. Of all the distant objects on Federal Hill, a certain huge, dark church most fascinated Blake. It stood out with especial distinctness at certain hours of the day, and at sunset the great tower and tapering steeple loomed blackly against the flaming sky. It seemed to rest on especially high ground; for the grimy facade, and the obliquely seen north side with sloping roof and the tops of great pointed windows, rose boldly above the tangle of surrounding ridgepoles and chimney-pots. Peculiarly grim and austere, it appeared to be built of stone, stained and weathered with the smoke and storms of a century and more. The style, so far as the glass could shew, was that earliest experimental form of Gothic revival which preceded the stately Upjohn period and held over some of the outlines and proportions of the Georgian age. Perhaps it was reared around 1810 or 1815. As months passed, Blake watched the far-off, forbidding structure with an oddly mounting interest. Since the vast windows were never lighted, he knew that it must be vacant. The longer he watched, the more his imagination worked, till at length he began to fancy curious things. He believed that a vague, singular aura of desolation hovered over the place, so that even the pigeons and swallows shunned its smoky eaves. Around other towers and belfries his glass would reveal great flocks of birds, but here they never rested. At least, that is what he thought and set down in his diary. He pointed the place out to several friends, but none of them had even been on Federal Hill or possessed the faintest notion of what the church was or had been. In the spring a deep restlessness gripped Blake. He had begun his long-planned novel—based on a supposed survival of the witch-cult in Maine—but was strangely unable to make progress with it. More and more he would sit at his westward window and gaze at the distant hill and the black, frowning steeple shunned by the birds. When the delicate leaves came out on the garden boughs the world was filled with a new beauty, but Blake's restlessness was merely increased. It was then that he first thought of crossing the city and climbing bodily up that fabulous slope into the smoke-wreathed world of dream. Late in April, just before the aeon-shadowed Walpurgis time, Blake made his first trip into the unknown. Plodding through the endless downtown streets and the bleak, decayed squares beyond, he came finally upon the ascending avenue of century-worn steps, sagging Doric porches, and blear-paned cupolas which he felt must lead up to the long-known, unreachable world beyond the mists. There were dingy blue-and-white street signs which meant nothing to him, and presently he noted the strange, dark faces of the drifting crowds, and the foreign signs over curious shops in brown, decade-weathered buildings. Nowhere could he find any of the objects he had seen from afar; so that once more he half fancied that the Federal Hill of that distant view was a dream-world never to be trod by living human feet. Now and then a battered church facade or crumbling spire came in sight, but never the blackened pile that he sought. When he asked a shopkeeper about a great stone church the man smiled and shook his head, though he spoke English freely. As Blake climbed higher, the region seemed stranger and stranger, with bewildering mazes of brooding brown alleys leading eternally off to the south. He crossed two or three broad avenues, and once thought he glimpsed a familiar tower. Again he asked a merchant about the massive church of stone, and this time he could have sworn that the plea of ignorance was feigned. The dark man's face had a look of fear which he tried to hide, and Blake saw him make a curious sign with his right hand. Then suddenly a black spire stood out against the cloudy sky on his left, above the tiers of brown roofs lining the tangled southerly alleys. Blake knew at once what it was, and plunged toward it through the squalid, unpaved lanes that climbed from the avenue. Twice he lost his way, but he somehow dared not ask any of the patriarchs or housewives who sat on their doorsteps, or any of the children who shouted and played in the mud of the shadowy lanes. At last he saw the tower plain against the southwest, and a huge stone bulk rose darkly at the end of an alley. Presently he stood in a windswept open square, quaintly cobblestoned, with a high bank wall on the farther side. This was the end of his quest; for upon the wide, iron-railed, weed-grown plateau which the wall supported—a separate, lesser world raised fully six feet above the surrounding streets—there stood a grim, titan bulk whose identity, despite Blake's new perspective, was beyond dispute. The vacant church was in a state of great decrepitude. Some of the high stone buttresses had fallen, and several delicate finials lay half lost among the brown, neglected weeds and grasses. The sooty Gothic windows were largely unbroken, though many of the stone mullions were missing. Blake wondered how the obscurely painted panes could have survived so well, in view of the known habits of small boys the world over. The massive doors were intact and tightly closed. Around the top of the bank wall, fully enclosing the grounds, was a rusty iron fence whose gate—at the head of a flight of steps from the square—was visibly padlocked. The path from the gate to the building was completely overgrown. Desolation and decay hung like a pall above the place, and in the birdless eaves and black, ivyless walls Blake felt a touch of the dimly sinister beyond his power to define. There were very few people in the square, but Blake saw a policeman at the northerly end and approached him with questions about the church. He was a great wholesome Irishman, and it seemed odd that he would do little more than make the sign of the cross and mutter that people never spoke of that building. When Blake pressed him he said very hurriedly that the Italian priests warned everybody against it, vowing that a monstrous evil had once dwelt there and left its mark. He himself had heard dark whispers of it from his father, who recalled certain sounds and rumours from his boyhood. There had been a bad sect there in the ould days—an outlaw sect that called up awful things from some unknown gulf of night. It had taken a good priest to exorcise what had come, though there did be those who said that merely the light could do it. If Father O'Malley were alive there would be many the thing he could tell. But now there was nothing to do but let it alone. It hurt nobody now, and those that owned it were dead or far away. They had run away like rats after the threatening talk in '77, when people began to mind the way folks vanished now and then in the neighbourhood. Some day the city would step in and take the property for lack of heirs, but little good would come of anybody's touching it. Better it be left alone for the years to topple, lest things be stirred that ought to rest forever in their black abyss. After the policeman had gone Blake stood staring at the sullen steepled pile. It excited him to find that the structure seemed as sinister to others as to him, and he wondered what grain of truth might lie behind the old tales the bluecoat had repeated. Probably they were mere legends evoked by the evil look of the place, but even so, they were like a strange coming to life of one of his own stories. The afternoon sun came out from behind dispersing clouds, but seemed unable to light up the stained, sooty walls of the old temple that towered on its high plateau. It was odd that the green of spring had not touched the brown, withered growths in the raised, iron-fenced yard. Blake found himself edging nearer the raised area and examining the bank wall and rusted fence for possible avenues of ingress. There was a terrible lure about the blackened fane which was not to be resisted. The fence had no opening near the steps, but around on the north side were some missing bars. He could go up the steps and walk around on the narrow coping outside the fence till he came to the gap. If the people feared the place so wildly, he would encounter no interference. He was on the embankment and almost inside the fence before anyone noticed him. Then, looking down, he saw the few people in the square edging away and making the same sign with their right hands that the shopkeeper in the avenue had made. Several windows were slammed down, and a fat woman darted into the street and pulled some small children inside a rickety, unpainted house. The gap in the fence was very easy to pass through, and before long Blake found himself wading amidst the rotting, tangled growths of the deserted yard. Here and there the worn stump of a headstone told him that there had once been burials in this field; but that, he saw, must have been very long ago. The sheer bulk of the church was oppressive now that he was close to it, but he conquered his mood and approached to try the three great doors in the facade. All were securely locked, so he began a circuit of the Cyclopean building in quest of some minor and more penetrable opening. Even then he could not be sure that he wished to enter that haunt of desertion and shadow, yet the pull of its strangeness dragged him on automatically. A yawning and unprotected cellar window in the rear furnished the needed aperture. Peering in, Blake saw a subterrene gulf of cobwebs and dust faintly litten by the western sun's filtered rays. Debris, old barrels, and ruined boxes and furniture of numerous sorts met his eye, though over everything lay a shroud of dust which softened all sharp outlines. The rusted remains of a hot-air furnace shewed that the building had been used and kept in shape as late as mid-Victorian times. Acting almost without conscious initiative, Blake crawled through the window and let himself down to the dust-carpeted and debris-strown concrete floor. The vaulted cellar was a vast one, without partitions; and in a corner far to the right, amid dense shadows, he saw a black archway evidently leading upstairs. He felt a peculiar sense of oppression at being actually within the great spectral building, but kept it in check as he cautiously scouted about—finding a still-intact barrel amid the dust, and rolling it over to the open window to provide for his exit. Then, bracing himself, he crossed the wide, cobweb-festooned space toward the arch. Half choked with the omnipresent dust, and covered with ghostly gossamer fibres, he reached and began to climb the worn stone steps which rose into the darkness. He had no light, but groped carefully with his hands. After a sharp turn he felt a closed door ahead, and a little fumbling revealed its ancient latch. It opened inward, and beyond it he saw a dimly illumined corridor lined with worm-eaten panelling. Once on the ground floor, Blake began exploring in a rapid fashion. All the inner doors were unlocked, so that he freely passed from room to room. The colossal nave was an almost eldritch place with its drifts and mountains of dust over box pews, altar, hourglass pulpit, and sounding-board, and its titanic ropes of cobweb stretching among the pointed arches of the gallery and entwining the clustered Gothic columns. Over all this hushed desolation played a hideous leaden light as the declining afternoon sun sent its rays through the strange, half-blackened panes of the great apsidal windows. The paintings on those windows were so obscured by soot that Blake could scarcely decipher what they had represented, but from the little he could make out he did not like them. The designs were largely conventional, and his knowledge of obscure symbolism told him much concerning some of the ancient patterns. The few saints depicted bore expressions distinctly open to criticism, while one of the windows seemed to shew merely a dark space with spirals of curious luminosity scattered about in it. Turning away from the windows, Blake noticed that the cobwebbed cross above the altar was not of the ordinary kind, but resembled the primordial ankh or crux ansata of shadowy Egypt. In a rear vestry room beside the apse Blake found a rotting desk and ceiling-high shelves of mildewed, disintegrating books. Here for the first time he received a positive shock of objective horror, for the titles of those books told him much. They were the black, forbidden things which most sane people have never even heard of, or have heard of only in furtive, timorous whispers; the banned and dreaded repositories of equivocal secrets and immemorial formulae which have trickled down the stream of time from the days of man's youth, and the dim, fabulous days before man was. He had himself read many of them—a Latin version of the abhorred Necronomicon, the sinister Liber Ivonis, the infamous Cultes des Goules of Comte d'Erlette, the Unaussprechlichen Kulten of von Junzt, and old Ludvig Prinn's hellish De Vermis Mysteriis. But there were others he had known merely by reputation or not at all—the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Book of Dzyan, and a crumbling volume in wholly unidentifiable characters yet with certain symbols and diagrams shudderingly recognisable to the occult student. Clearly, the lingering local rumours had not lied. This place had once been the seat of an evil older than mankind and wider than the known universe. In the ruined desk was a small leather-bound record-book filled with entries in some odd cryptographic medium. The manuscript writing consisted of the common traditional symbols used today in astronomy and anciently in alchemy, astrology, and other dubious arts—the devices of the sun, moon, planets, aspects, and zodiacal signs—here massed in solid pages of text, with divisions and paragraphings suggesting that each symbol answered to some alphabetical letter. In the hope of later solving the cryptogram, Blake bore off this volume in his coat pocket. Many of the great tomes on the shelves fascinated him unutterably, and he felt tempted to borrow them at some later time. He wondered how they could have remained undisturbed so long. Was he the first to conquer the clutching, pervasive fear which had for nearly sixty years protected this deserted place from visitors? Having now thoroughly explored the ground floor, Blake ploughed again through the dust of the spectral nave to the front vestibule, where he had seen a door and staircase presumably leading up to the blackened tower and steeple—objects so long familiar to him at a distance. The ascent was a choking experience, for dust lay thick, while the spiders had done their worst in this constricted place. The staircase was a spiral with high, narrow wooden treads, and now and then Blake passed a clouded window looking dizzily out over the city. Though he had seen no ropes below, he expected to find a bell or peal of bells in the tower whose narrow, louver-boarded lancet windows his field-glass had studied so often. Here he was doomed to disappointment; for when he attained the top of the stairs he found the tower chamber vacant of chimes, and clearly devoted to vastly different purposes. The room, about fifteen feet square, was faintly lighted by four lancet windows, one on each side, which were glazed within their screening of decayed louver-boards. These had been further fitted with tight, opaque screens, but the latter were now largely rotted away. In the centre of the dust-laden floor rose a curiously angled stone pillar some four feet in height and two in average diameter, covered on each side with bizarre, crudely incised, and wholly unrecognisable hieroglyphs. On this pillar rested a metal box of peculiarly asymmetrical form; its hinged lid thrown back, and its interior holding what looked beneath the decade-deep dust to be an egg-shaped or irregularly spherical object some four inches through. Around the pillar in a rough circle were seven high-backed Gothic chairs still largely intact, while behind them, ranging along the dark-panelled walls, were seven colossal images of crumbling, black-painted plaster, resembling more than anything else the cryptic carven megaliths of mysterious Easter Island. In one corner of the cobwebbed chamber a ladder was built into the wall, leading up to the closed trap-door of the windowless steeple above. As Blake grew accustomed to the feeble light he noticed odd bas-reliefs on the strange open box of yellowish metal. Approaching, he tried to clear the dust away with his hands and handkerchief, and saw that the figurings were of a monstrous and utterly alien kind; depicting entities which, though seemingly alive, resembled no known life-form ever evolved on this planet. The four-inch seeming sphere turned out to be a nearly black, red-striated polyhedron with many irregular flat surfaces; either a very remarkable crystal of some sort, or an artificial object of carved and highly polished mineral matter. It did not touch the bottom of the box, but was held suspended by means of a metal band around its centre, with seven queerly designed supports extending horizontally to angles of the box's inner wall near the top. This stone, once exposed, exerted upon Blake an almost alarming fascination. He could scarcely tear his eyes from it, and as he looked at its glistening surfaces he almost fancied it was transparent, with half-formed worlds of wonder within. Into his mind floated pictures of alien orbs with great stone towers, and other orbs with titan mountains and no mark of life, and still remoter spaces where only a stirring in vague blacknesses told of the presence of consciousness and will. When he did look away, it was to notice a somewhat singular mound of dust in the far corner near the ladder to the steeple. Just why it took his attention he could not tell, but something in its contours carried a message to his unconscious mind. Ploughing toward it, and brushing aside the hanging cobwebs as he went, he began to discern something grim about it. Hand and handkerchief soon revealed the truth, and Blake gasped with a baffling mixture of emotions. It was a human skeleton, and it must have been there for a very long time. The clothing was in shreds, but some buttons and fragments of cloth bespoke a man's grey suit. There were other bits of evidence—shoes, metal clasps, huge buttons for round cuffs, a stickpin of bygone pattern, a reporter's badge with the name of the old Providence Telegram, and a crumbling leather pocketbook. Blake examined the latter with care, finding within it several bills of antiquated issue, a celluloid advertising calendar for 1893, some cards with the name “Edwin M. Lillibridge”, and a paper covered with pencilled memoranda. This paper held much of a puzzling nature, and Blake read it carefully at the dim westward window. Its disjointed text included such phrases as the following: “Prof. Enoch Bowen home from Egypt May 1844—buys old Free-Will Church in July—his archaeological work & studies in occult well known.” “Dr. Drowne of 4th Baptist warns against Starry Wisdom in sermon Dec. 29, 1844.” “Congregation 97 by end of '45.” “1846—3 disappearances—first mention of Shining Trapezohedron.” “7 disappearances 1848—stories of blood sacrifice begin.” “Investigation 1853 comes to nothing—stories of sounds.” “Fr. O'Malley tells of devil-worship with box found in great Egyptian ruins—says they call up something that can't exist in light. Flees a little light, and banished by strong light. Then has to be summoned again. Probably got this from deathbed confession of Francis X. Feeney, who had joined Starry Wisdom in '49. These people say the Shining Trapezohedron shews them heaven & other worlds, & that the Haunter of the Dark tells them secrets in some way.” “Story of Orrin B. Eddy 1857. They call it up by gazing at the crystal, & have a secret language of their own.” “200 or more in cong. 1863, exclusive of men at front.” “Irish boys mob church in 1869 after Patrick Regan's disappearance.” “Veiled article in J. March 14, '72, but people don't talk about it.” “6 disappearances 1876—secret committee calls on Mayor Doyle.” “Action promised Feb. 1877—church closes in April.” “Gang—Federal Hill Boys—threaten Dr. —— and vestrymen in May.” “181 persons leave city before end of '77—mention no names.” “Ghost stories begin around 1880—try to ascertain truth of report that no human being has entered church since 1877.” “Ask Lanigan for photograph of place taken 1851.” . . . Restoring the paper to the pocketbook and placing the latter in his coat, Blake turned to look down at the skeleton in the dust. The implications of the notes were clear, and there could be no doubt but that this man had come to the deserted edifice forty-two years before in quest of a newspaper sensation which no one else had been bold enough to attempt. Perhaps no one else had known of his plan—who could tell? But he had never returned to his paper. Had some bravely suppressed fear risen to overcome him and bring on sudden heart-failure? Blake stooped over the gleaming bones and noted their peculiar state. Some of them were badly scattered, and a few seemed oddly dissolved at the ends. Others were strangely yellowed, with vague suggestions of charring. This charring extended to some of the fragments of clothing. The skull was in a very peculiar state—stained yellow, and with a charred aperture in the top as if some powerful acid had eaten through the solid bone. What had happened to the skeleton during its four decades of silent entombment here Blake could not imagine. Before he realised it, he was looking at the stone again, and letting its curious influence call up a nebulous pageantry in his mind. He saw processions of robed, hooded figures whose outlines were not human, and looked on endless leagues of desert lined with carved, sky-reaching monoliths. He saw towers and walls in nighted depths under the sea, and vortices of space where wisps of black mist floated before thin shimmerings of cold purple haze. And beyond all else he glimpsed an infinite gulf of darkness, where solid and semi-solid forms were known only by their windy stirrings, and cloudy patterns of force seemed to superimpose order on chaos and hold forth a key to all the paradoxes and arcana of the worlds we know. Then all at once the spell was broken by an access of gnawing, indeterminate panic fear. Blake choked and turned away from the stone, conscious of some formless alien presence close to him and watching him with horrible intentness. He felt entangled with something—something which was not in the stone, but which had looked through it at him—something which would ceaselessly follow him with a cognition that was not physical sight. Plainly, the place was getting on his nerves—as well it might in view of his gruesome find. The light was waning, too, and since he had no illuminant with him he knew he would have to be leaving soon. It was then, in the gathering twilight, that he thought he saw a faint trace of luminosity in the crazily angled stone. He had tried to look away from it, but some obscure compulsion drew his eyes back. Was there a subtle phosphorescence of radio-activity about the thing? What was it that the dead man's notes had said concerning a Shining Trapezohedron? What, anyway, was this abandoned lair of cosmic evil? What had been done here, and what might still be lurking in the bird-shunned shadows? It seemed now as if an elusive touch of foetor had arisen somewhere close by, though its source was not apparent. Blake seized the cover of the long-open box and snapped it down. It moved easily on its alien hinges, and closed completely over the unmistakably glowing stone. At the sharp click of that closing a soft stirring sound seemed to come from the steeple's eternal blackness overhead, beyond the trap-door. Rats, without question—the only living things to reveal their presence in this accursed pile since he had entered it. And yet that stirring in the steeple frightened him horribly, so that he plunged almost wildly down the spiral stairs, across the ghoulish nave, into the vaulted basement, out amidst the gathering dusk of the deserted square, and down through the teeming, fear-haunted alleys and avenues of Federal Hill toward the sane central streets and the home-like brick sidewalks of the college district. During the days which followed, Blake told no one of his expedition. Instead, he read much in certain books, examined long years of newspaper files downtown, and worked feverishly at the cryptogram in that leather volume from the cobwebbed vestry room. The cipher, he soon saw, was no simple one; and after a long period of endeavour he felt sure that its language could not be English, Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, Italian, or German. Evidently he would have to draw upon the deepest wells of his strange erudition. Every evening the old impulse to gaze westward returned, and he saw the black steeple as of yore amongst the bristling roofs of a distant and half-fabulous world. But now it held a fresh note of terror for him. He knew the heritage of evil lore it masked, and with the knowledge his vision ran riot in queer new ways. The birds of spring were returning, and as he watched their sunset flights he fancied they avoided the gaunt, lone spire as never before. When a flock of them approached it, he thought, they would wheel and scatter in panic confusion—and he could guess at the wild twitterings which failed to reach him across the intervening miles. It was in June that Blake's diary told of his victory over the cryptogram. The text was, he found, in the dark Aklo language used by certain cults of evil antiquity, and known to him in a halting way through previous researches. The diary is strangely reticent about what Blake deciphered, but he was patently awed and disconcerted by his results. There are references to a Haunter of the Dark awaked by gazing into the Shining Trapezohedron, and insane conjectures about the black gulfs of chaos from which it was called. The being is spoken of as holding all knowledge, and demanding monstrous sacrifices. Some of Blake's entries shew fear lest the thing, which he seemed to regard as summoned, stalk abroad; though he adds that the street-lights form a bulwark which cannot be crossed. Of the Shining Trapezohedron he speaks often, calling it a window on all time and space, and tracing its history from the days it was fashioned on dark Yuggoth, before ever the Old Ones brought it to earth. It was treasured and placed in its curious box by the crinoid things of Antarctica, salvaged from their ruins by the serpent-men of Valusia, and peered at aeons later in Lemuria by the first human beings. It crossed strange lands and stranger seas, and sank with Atlantis before a Minoan fisher meshed it in his net and sold it to swarthy merchants from nighted Khem. The Pharaoh Nephren-Ka built around it a temple with a windowless crypt, and did that which caused his name to be stricken from all monuments and records. Then it slept in the ruins of that evil fane which the priests and the new Pharaoh destroyed, till the delver's spade once more brought it forth to curse mankind. Early in July the newspapers oddly supplement Blake's entries, though in so brief and casual a way that only the diary has called general attention to their contribution. It appears that a new fear had been growing on Federal Hill since a stranger had entered the dreaded church. The Italians whispered of unaccustomed stirrings and bumpings and scrapings in the dark windowless steeple, and called on their priests to banish an entity which haunted their dreams. Something, they said, was constantly watching at a door to see if it were dark enough to venture forth. Press items mentioned the long-standing local superstitions, but failed to shed much light on the earlier background of the horror. It was obvious that the young reporters of today are no antiquarians. In writing of these things in his diary, Blake expresses a curious kind of remorse, and talks of the duty of burying the Shining Trapezohedron and of banishing what he had evoked by letting daylight into the hideous jutting spire. At the same time, however, he displays the dangerous extent of his fascination, and admits a morbid longing—pervading even his dreams—to visit the accursed tower and gaze again into the cosmic secrets of the glowing stone. Then something in the Journal on the morning of July 17 threw the diarist into a veritable fever of horror. It was only a variant of the other half-humorous items about the Federal Hill restlessness, but to Blake it was somehow very terrible indeed. In the night a thunderstorm had put the city's lighting-system out of commission for a full hour, and in that black interval the Italians had nearly gone mad with fright. Those living near the dreaded church had sworn that the thing in the steeple had taken advantage of the street-lamps' absence and gone down into the body of the church, flopping and bumping around in a viscous, altogether dreadful way. Toward the last it had bumped up to the tower, where there were sounds of the shattering of glass. It could go wherever the darkness reached, but light would always send it fleeing. When the current blazed on again there had been a shocking commotion in the tower, for even the feeble light trickling through the grime-blackened, louver-boarded windows was too much for the thing. It had bumped and slithered up into its tenebrous steeple just in time—for a long dose of light would have sent it back into the abyss whence the crazy stranger had called it. During the dark hour praying crowds had clustered round the church in the rain with lighted candles and lamps somehow shielded with folded paper and umbrellas—a guard of light to save the city from the nightmare that stalks in darkness. Once, those nearest the church declared, the outer door had rattled hideously. But even this was not the worst. That evening in the Bulletin Blake read of what the reporters had found. Aroused at last to the whimsical news value of the scare, a pair of them had defied the frantic crowds of Italians and crawled into the church through the cellar window after trying the doors in vain. They found the dust of the vestibule and of the spectral nave ploughed up in a singular way, with bits of rotted cushions and satin pew-linings scattered curiously around. There was a bad odour everywhere, and here and there were bits of yellow stain and patches of what looked like charring. Opening the door to the tower, and pausing a moment at the suspicion of a scraping sound above, they found the narrow spiral stairs wiped roughly clean. In the tower itself a similarly half-swept condition existed. They spoke of the heptagonal stone pillar, the overturned Gothic chairs, and the bizarre plaster images; though strangely enough the metal box and the old mutilated skeleton were not mentioned. What disturbed Blake the most—except for the hints of stains and charring and bad odours—was the final detail that explained the crashing glass. Every one of the tower's lancet windows was broken, and two of them had been darkened in a crude and hurried way by the stuffing of satin pew-linings and cushion-horsehair into the spaces between the slanting exterior louver-boards. More satin fragments and bunches of horsehair lay scattered around the newly swept floor, as if someone had been interrupted in the act of restoring the tower to the absolute blackness of its tightly curtained days. Yellowish stains and charred patches were found on the ladder to the windowless spire, but when a reporter climbed up, opened the horizontally sliding trap-door, and shot a feeble flashlight beam into the black and strangely foetid space, he saw nothing but darkness, and an heterogeneous litter of shapeless fragments near the aperture. The verdict, of course, was charlatanry. Somebody had played a joke on the superstitious hill-dwellers, or else some fanatic had striven to bolster up their fears for their own supposed good. Or perhaps some of the younger and more sophisticated dwellers had staged an elaborate hoax on the outside world. There was an amusing aftermath when the police sent an officer to verify the reports. Three men in succession found ways of evading the assignment, and the fourth went very reluctantly and returned very soon without adding to the account given by the reporters. From this point onward Blake's diary shews a mounting tide of insidious horror and nervous apprehension. He upbraids himself for not doing something, and speculates wildly on the consequences of another electrical breakdown. It has been verified that on three occasions—during thunderstorms—he telephoned the electric light company in a frantic vein and asked that desperate precautions against a lapse of power be taken. Now and then his entries shew concern over the failure of the reporters to find the metal box and stone, and the strangely marred old skeleton, when they explored the shadowy tower room. He assumed that these things had been removed—whither, and by whom or what, he could only guess. But his worst fears concerned himself, and the kind of unholy rapport he felt to exist between his mind and that lurking horror in the distant steeple—that monstrous thing of night which his rashness had called out of the ultimate black spaces. He seemed to feel a constant tugging at his will, and callers of that period remember how he would sit abstractedly at his desk and stare out of the west window at that far-off, spire-bristling mound beyond the swirling smoke of the city. His entries dwell monotonously on certain terrible dreams, and of a strengthening of the unholy rapport in his sleep. There is mention of a night when he awaked to find himself fully dressed, outdoors, and headed automatically down College Hill toward the west. Again and again he dwells on the fact that the thing in the steeple knows where to find him. The week following July 30 is recalled as the time of Blake's partial breakdown. He did not dress, and ordered all his food by telephone. Visitors remarked the cords he kept near his bed, and he said that sleep-walking had forced him to bind his ankles every night with knots which would probably hold or else waken him with the labour of untying. In his diary he told of the hideous experience which had brought the collapse. After retiring on the night of the 30th he had suddenly found himself groping about in an almost black space. All he could see were short, faint, horizontal streaks of bluish light, but he could smell an overpowering foetor and hear a curious jumble of soft, furtive sounds above him. Whenever he moved he stumbled over something, and at each noise there would come a sort of answering sound from above—a vague stirring, mixed with the cautious sliding of wood on wood. Once his groping hands encountered a pillar of stone with a vacant top, whilst later he found himself clutching the rungs of a ladder built into the wall, and fumbling his uncertain way upward toward some region of intenser stench where a hot, searing blast beat down against him. Before his eyes a kaleidoscopic range of phantasmal images played, all of them dissolving at intervals into the picture of a vast, unplumbed abyss of night wherein whirled suns and worlds of an even profounder blackness. He thought of the ancient legends of Ultimate Chaos, at whose centre sprawls the blind idiot god Azathoth, Lord of All Things, encircled by his flopping horde of mindless and amorphous dancers, and lulled by the thin monotonous piping of a daemoniac flute held in nameless paws. Then a sharp report from the outer world broke through his stupor and roused him to the unutterable horror of his position. What it was, he never knew—perhaps it was some belated peal from the fireworks heard all summer on Federal Hill as the dwellers hail their various patron saints, or the saints of their native villages in Italy. In any event he shrieked aloud, dropped frantically from the ladder, and stumbled blindly across the obstructed floor of the almost lightless chamber that encompassed him. He knew instantly where he was, and plunged recklessly down the narrow spiral staircase, tripping and bruising himself at every turn. There was a nightmare flight through a vast cobwebbed nave whose ghostly arches reached up to realms of leering shadow, a sightless scramble through a littered basement, a climb to regions of air and street-lights outside, and a mad racing down a spectral hill of gibbering gables, across a grim, silent city of tall black towers, and up the steep eastward precipice to his own ancient door. On regaining consciousness in the morning he found himself lying on his study floor fully dressed. Dirt and cobwebs covered him, and every inch of his body seemed sore and bruised. When he faced the mirror he saw that his hair was badly scorched, while a trace of strange, evil odour seemed to cling to his upper outer clothing. It was then that his nerves broke down. Thereafter, lounging exhaustedly about in a dressing-gown, he did little but stare from his west window, shiver at the threat of thunder, and make wild entries in his diary. The great storm broke just before midnight on August 8th. Lightning struck repeatedly in all parts of the city, and two remarkable fireballs were reported. The rain was torrential, while a constant fusillade of thunder brought sleeplessness to thousands. Blake was utterly frantic in his fear for the lighting system, and tried to telephone the company around 1 a.m., though by that time service had been temporarily cut off in the interest of safety. He recorded everything in his diary—the large, nervous, and often undecipherable hieroglyphs telling their own story of growing frenzy and despair, and of entries scrawled blindly in the dark. He had to keep the house dark in order to see out the window, and it appears that most of his time was spent at his desk, peering anxiously through the rain across the glistening miles of downtown roofs at the constellation of distant lights marking Federal Hill. Now and then he would fumblingly make an entry in his diary, so that detached phrases such as “The lights must not go”; “It knows where I am”; “I must destroy it”; and “It is calling to me, but perhaps it means no injury this time”; are found scattered down two of the pages. Then the lights went out all over the city. It happened at 2:12 a.m. according to power-house records, but Blake's diary gives no indication of the time. The entry is merely, “Lights out—God help me.” On Federal Hill there were watchers as anxious as he, and rain-soaked knots of men paraded the square and alleys around the evil church with umbrella-shaded candles, electric flashlights, oil lanterns, crucifixes, and obscure charms of the many sorts common to southern Italy. They blessed each flash of lightning, and made cryptical signs of fear with their right hands when a turn in the storm caused the flashes to lessen and finally to cease altogether. A rising wind blew out most of the candles, so that the scene grew threateningly dark. Someone roused Father Merluzzo of Spirito Santo Church, and he hastened to the dismal square to pronounce whatever helpful syllables he could. Of the restless and curious sounds in the blackened tower, there could be no doubt whatever. For what happened at 2:35 we have the testimony of the priest, a young, intelligent, and well-educated person; of Patrolman William J. Monahan of the Central Station, an officer of the highest reliability who had paused at that part of his beat to inspect the crowd; and of most of the seventy-eight men who had gathered around the church's high bank wall—especially those in the square where the eastward facade was visible. Of course there was nothing which can be proved as being outside the order of Nature. The possible causes of such an event are many. No one can speak with certainty of the obscure chemical processes arising in a vast, ancient, ill-aired, and long-deserted building of heterogeneous contents. Mephitic vapours—spontaneous combustion—pressure of gases born of long decay—any one of numberless phenomena might be responsible. And then, of course, the factor of conscious charlatanry can by no means be excluded. The thing was really quite simple in itself, and covered less than three minutes of actual time. Father Merluzzo, always a precise man, looked at his watch repeatedly. It started with a definite swelling of the dull fumbling sounds inside the black tower. There had for some time been a vague exhalation of strange, evil odours from the church, and this had now become emphatic and offensive. Then at last there was a sound of splintering wood, and a large, heavy object crashed down in the yard beneath the frowning easterly facade. The tower was invisible now that the candles would not burn, but as the object neared the ground the people knew that it was the smoke-grimed louver-boarding of that tower's east window. Immediately afterward an utterly unbearable foetor welled forth from the unseen heights, choking and sickening the trembling watchers, and almost prostrating those in the square. At the same time the air trembled with a vibration as of flapping wings, and a sudden east-blowing wind more violent than any previous blast snatched off the hats and wrenched the dripping umbrellas of the crowd. Nothing definite could be seen in the candleless night, though some upward-looking spectators thought they glimpsed a great spreading blur of denser blackness against the inky sky—something like a formless cloud of smoke that shot with meteor-like speed toward the east. That was all. The watchers were half numbed with fright, awe, and discomfort, and scarcely knew what to do, or whether to do anything at all. Not knowing what had happened, they did not relax their vigil; and a moment later they sent up a prayer as a sharp flash of belated lightning, followed by an earsplitting crash of sound, rent the flooded heavens. Half an hour later the rain stopped, and in fifteen minutes more the street-lights sprang on again, sending the weary, bedraggled watchers relievedly back to their homes. The next day's papers gave these matters minor mention in connexion with the general storm reports. It seems that the great lightning flash and deafening explosion which followed the Federal Hill occurrence were even more tremendous farther east, where a burst of the singular foetor was likewise noticed. The phenomenon was most marked over College Hill, where the crash awaked all the sleeping inhabitants and led to a bewildered round of speculations. Of those who were already awake only a few saw the anomalous blaze of light near the top of the hill, or noticed the inexplicable upward rush of air which almost stripped the leaves from the trees and blasted the plants in the gardens. It was agreed that the lone, sudden lightning-bolt must have struck somewhere in this neighbourhood, though no trace of its striking could afterward be found. A youth in the Tau Omega fraternity house thought he saw a grotesque and hideous mass of smoke in the air just as the preliminary flash burst, but his observation has not been verified. All of the few observers, however, agree as to the violent gust from the west and the flood of intolerable stench which preceded the belated stroke; whilst evidence concerning the momentary burned odour after the stroke is equally general. These points were discussed very carefully because of their probable connexion with the death of Robert Blake. Students in the Psi Delta house, whose upper rear windows looked into Blake's study, noticed the blurred white face at the westward window on the morning of the 9th, and wondered what was wrong with the expression. When they saw the same face in the same position that evening, they felt worried, and watched for the lights to come up in his apartment. Later they rang the bell of the darkened flat, and finally had a policeman force the door. The rigid body sat bolt upright at the desk by the window, and when the intruders saw the glassy, bulging eyes, and the marks of stark, convulsive fright on the twisted features, they turned away in sickened dismay. Shortly afterward the coroner's physician made an examination, and despite the unbroken window reported electrical shock, or nervous tension induced by electrical discharge, as the cause of death. The hideous expression he ignored altogether, deeming it a not improbable result of the profound shock as experienced by a person of such abnormal imagination and unbalanced emotions. He deduced these latter qualities from the books, paintings, and manuscripts found in the apartment, and from the blindly scrawled entries in the diary on the desk. Blake had prolonged his frenzied jottings to the last, and the broken-pointed pencil was found clutched in his spasmodically contracted right hand. The entries after the failure of the lights were highly disjointed, and legible only in part. From them certain investigators have drawn conclusions differing greatly from the materialistic official verdict, but such speculations have little chance for belief among the conservative. The case of these imaginative theorists has not been helped by the action of superstitious Dr. Dexter, who threw the curious box and angled stone—an object certainly self-luminous as seen in the black windowless steeple where it was found—into the deepest channel of Narragansett Bay. Excessive imagination and neurotic unbalance on Blake's part, aggravated by knowledge of the evil bygone cult whose startling traces he had uncovered, form the dominant interpretation given those final frenzied jottings. These are the entries—or all that can be made of them. “Lights still out—must be five minutes now. Everything depends on lightning. Yaddith grant it will keep up! . . . Some influence seems beating through it. . . . Rain and thunder and wind deafen. . . . The thing is taking hold of my mind. . . . “Trouble with memory. I see things I never knew before. Other worlds and other galaxies . . . Dark . . . The lightning seems dark and the darkness seems light. . . . “It cannot be the real hill and church that I see in the pitch-darkness. Must be retinal impression left by flashes. Heaven grant the Italians are out with their candles if the lightning stops! “What am I afraid of? Is it not an avatar of Nyarlathotep, who in antique and shadowy Khem even took the form of man? I remember Yuggoth, and more distant Shaggai, and the ultimate void of the black planets. . . . “The long, winging flight through the void . . . cannot cross the universe of light . . . re-created by the thoughts caught in the Shining Trapezohedron . . . send it through the horrible abysses of radiance. . . . “My name is Blake—Robert Harrison Blake of 620 East Knapp Street, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. . . . I am on this planet. . . . “Azathoth have mercy!—the lightning no longer flashes—horrible—I can see everything with a monstrous sense that is not sight—light is dark and dark is light . . . those people on the hill . . . guard . . . candles and charms . . . their priests. . . . “Sense of distance gone—far is near and near is far. No light—no glass—see that steeple—that tower—window—can hear—Roderick Usher—am mad or going mad—the thing is stirring and fumbling in the tower—I am it and it is I—I want to get out . . . must get out and unify the forces. . . . It knows where I am. . . . “I am Robert Blake, but I see the tower in the dark. There is a monstrous odour . . . senses transfigured . . . boarding at that tower window cracking and giving way. . . . Iä . . . ngai . . . ygg. . . . “I see it—coming here—hell-wind—titan blur—black wings—Yog-Sothoth save me—the three-lobed burning eye. . . .”

We had the pleasure of interviewing MAY-A over Zoom video!Australian singer-songwriter, MAY-A, will recently released her new EP, ANALYSIS PARALYSIS.You probably know MAY-A from her collab with Australian electronic superstar Flume, “Say Nothing (Feat. MAY-A).” The EP features focus track, “Guilty Conscience,” and previously released singles “Sweat You Out My System,” “Your Funeral,” “LOLA” and “Something Familiar.” The 7-track project also includes the brand new “Ifyoulikeitlikethat” and “SUPERIOR LIAR,” while showing MAY-A's continued exploration and experimentation with new sounds and experiences.ABOUT MAY-AEP singles “Your Funeral” and “Sweat You Out My System” were both met by global applause upon their release this spring, with PAPER praising the latter track as “anthemic ‘90s-style rock…a heated breakup track, which likens a split to going cold turkey and captures all the anxiety and intensity that implies.” “The new pop/rock-meets-semi-rap track brilliantly recontextualizes the indie-pop stylings fans have grown accustomed to from the Australian phenom,” agreed Billboard. “MAY-A leans all the way in with punchy guitars and blown-out drums. Her lyricism remains top-shelf.” “The self-deprecating ‘Your Funeral' finds (MAY-A) leaning into more alt-pop-based sonics,” declared Ones To Watch, “as she unpacks her relationship habits with satirical lyricism flowing above a driving beat.”The ongoing series of new releases follows an incredibly successful 2022 for MAY-A, which included her ARIA Award-nominated collaboration with Australian electronic superstar Flume, “Say Nothing (Feat. MAY-A),” which reached #12 on Billboard's “Hot Dance/Electronic Songs” chart amidst a storm of high-profile media attention from Billboard, Complex and more. MAY-A joined Flume for performances of “Say Nothing” during show-stopping sets at last year's Coachella and Governors Ball as well as on his sold-out US and Australian headline tours. MAY-A also unveiled her own unique rendition, “Say Nothing (MAY-A's Version),” hailed by NME as “a total tone shift from the duo's original, stripping out the song's driving beat and Flume's electronic elements. Instead, MAY-A opts for hauntingly hazy vocals, acoustic guitar and spacious, lo-fi production, letting the vulnerability of the song's lyrics shine through.”Nominated for Rolling Stone Australia's “Best New Artist” award and hailed by Billboard as “a master class in indie pop,” MAY-A made her extraordinary debut with 2021's acclaimed Don't Kiss Ur Friends. The EP – which received a prestigious ARIA Award nomination for “Breakthrough Artist – Release” in MAY-A's home country of Australia – includes such inventive and self-assured tracks as “Swing Of Things,” “Time I Love To Waste,” “Green,” and “Central Station.“Known as a dynamic and inventive live performer, MAY-A supported 5 Seconds of Summer on their recent Australian headline tour and joined Wallows on the UK/EU leg of their landmark Tell Me That It's Over World Tour, earning praise by DORK as “an artist bringing all their anticipated hype to life.”We want to hear from you! Please email Hello@BringinitBackwards.comwww.BringinitBackwards.com#podcast #interview #bringinbackpod #MAY-A #SayNothing #ANALYSISPARALYSIS #NewMusic #ZoomListen & Subscribe to BiBhttps://www.bringinitbackwards.com/followFollow our podcast on Instagram and Twitter! https://www.facebook.com/groups/bringinbackpodThis show is part of the Spreaker Prime Network, if you are interested in advertising on this podcast, contact us at https://www.spreaker.com/show/4972373/advertisement

What's up, homeslices! Thank you all for locking in with us yet again! We are talking about a pretty dope location that really changed the landscape of Chicago's we know it. Chicago's Central Station in Grant Park played a major roll for the city and you should definitely know the history! Also, we had so very nice Italian food at Sapori Trattoria. We were packed in there, but the food was good. Tune in and learn with us! If you have anything you'd like us to talk about on the podcast, food or history, please email us at ⁠media@77flavorschi.com⁠  WATCH US ON YOUTUBE ⁠HERE⁠! Visit our website ⁠https://www.77flavorschi.com⁠ Shop our gear from Amazon! ⁠https://www.amazon.com/shop/77flavorschi⁠ Follow us on IG: 77 Flavors of Chicago ⁠@77flavorschi⁠ Dario ⁠@super_dario_bro⁠ Sara ⁠@TamarHindi.s --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/77-flavors-of-chicago/support

Die Bayern empfangen Leverkusen zum Spitzenspiel. Wird Granit Xhaka zum entscheidenden Faktor oder behauptet sich das Sieger-Gen der Münchner? Außerdem versucht Borussia Dortmund in Freiburg, in der Saison anzukommen.

Rencontre avec Jean-Paul Sinclair qui vient de marquer 50 ans de service avec NSW TrainLink. Il est bien connu autour de Central Station de Sydney. Son surnom est « Frenchie ».

"A woman in leopard print wheels a suitcase past me, her silver plated heels glinting in the sun with each footstep." Please note before you start listening: this podcast is recorded in 3D sound! So make sure that you're wearing headphones for the very best experience. The small details in life can pass you by. Unless you take the time to stop to notice them. Which is exactly what author, actor and social media personality Miranda Keeling does in this podcast series. Expanding on the observations she shares on her popular Twitter account, she invites you to join her out and about as she captures those small, magical moments of everyday life, in sound. Thanks to 3D recordings, you'll hear everything she does as if you were right there with her. There are new episodes every Tuesday and Thursday. These short but lovingly crafted episodes are an invitation to escape from life's hustle, immersing you in Miranda's world for a few minutes. Miranda's daily walks are an opportunity for gratitude, reflection and mindfulness, and she encourages listeners to join her in taking a moment to appreciate the beauty that surrounds us. Whether you're looking for inspiration or simply need a break from the chaos, "Stopping to Notice" is the perfect podcast for you. If you like what you hear, then please follow Stopping To Notice for free, wherever you get your podcasts. Follow us on your favorite podcast platform and connect with Miranda on Twitter/X, Instagram and Mastodon @MirandaKeeling. Don't forget to check out her book, "The Year I Stopped To Notice," for even more insight into living a mindful life. It's available now: https://uk.bookshop.org/books/the-year-i-stopped-to-notice/9781785787966 The podcast was produced by Oli Seymour for Fresh Air Production.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

"A couple stand in a tech store, looking as if they are about to make an expensive decision." Please note before you start listening: this podcast is recorded in 3D sound! So make sure that you're wearing headphones for the very best experience. The small details in life can pass you by. Unless you take the time to stop to notice them. Which is exactly what author, actor and social media personality Miranda Keeling does in this podcast series. Expanding on the observations she shares on her popular Twitter account, she invites you to join her out and about as she captures those small, magical moments of everyday life, in sound. Thanks to 3D recordings, you'll hear everything she does as if you were right there with her. There are new episodes every Tuesday and Thursday. These short but lovingly crafted episodes are an invitation to escape from life's hustle, immersing you in Miranda's world for a few minutes. Miranda's daily walks are an opportunity for gratitude, reflection and mindfulness, and she encourages listeners to join her in taking a moment to appreciate the beauty that surrounds us. Whether you're looking for inspiration or simply need a break from the chaos, "Stopping to Notice" is the perfect podcast for you. If you like what you hear, then please follow Stopping To Notice for free, wherever you get your podcasts. Follow us on your favorite podcast platform and connect with Miranda on Twitter/X, Instagram and Mastodon @MirandaKeeling. Don't forget to check out her book, "The Year I Stopped To Notice," for even more insight into living a mindful life. It's available now: https://uk.bookshop.org/books/the-year-i-stopped-to-notice/9781785787966 The podcast was produced by Oli Seymour for Fresh Air Production.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

A round-up of the main headlines in Sweden on August 4th, 2023. You can hear more reports on our homepage radiosweden.se, or in the app Sveriges Radio Play. Presenter: Simon LinterProducer: Michael Walsh

Apologies for not posting an episode for so long! As the count down to the podcast baby gets shorter and shorter, I have been "making hay while the sun shines" and doing lots of contract work!  So, here is an oldie but a goodie, and one we get requested all the time! This episode is based on one of the most popular stories on the Central Station website, called “Tips for station newbies”. From advice when applying for a job, to what to pack and how to behave once you've got the job – we cover a lot in this episode! We even cover … sex! So, if you have little ones around, it might be best to plug in some headphones. Whether you're heading out to a station for the first time, or you've been around for a while, there's something for everything in this episode. If you have any advice you think we should include on our website, send us a message through our website or any of our social media accounts. Ok, here is the mandatory disclaimer… The views reflected in this episode are those of the author and podcast host, and do not necessarily represent the views of Central Station staff, people who contribute to our website or our wonderful sponsors. The original blog was written in good humor and that is the same for this episode – we don't take ourselves too seriously, and you shouldn't either – we encourage you to take the following with a grain of salt and make up your own mind.  See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

If ever there was a living saint, it was Corrie ten Boom. Should you ever have the opportunity of visiting Amsterdam, take the train from Central Station for a 20 minute ride to Haarlem, a delightful Dutch town. Walk past the city square and just off this, past the old church where Corrie's nephew was the organist, there you will find a watch shop made famous by the movie, "The Hiding Place."

雪梨上星期四 (5 月 25 日) 經歷 55 年來最嚴重的火災，一座位於中央車站 (Central Station) 附近、被列為歷史文物的廢棄舊工廠發生大火，造成嚴重損毀並需要被拆卸。

Central Stations Night Shift Officer, Reg Agar, has been going above and beyond to return customer's lost property, from ashes, to envelopes of money, and now a woman's backpack.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Hang out with Al as he chats with writer/creator, Tony James all about his latest kickstarter, Star Noir: Book One, A 1940's detective teams up with a grey alien to stop a shapeshifter killing LAPD officers in Central Station. Tune in to learn all about this amazing project and more… Support the project at: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/starnoir/star-noir-book-one Follow Tony on: Twitter: @tslashj Instagram: @bananabat & iammustachio Thank You for Watching / Listening! We appreciate your support! Episode 259 in an unlimited series! Host: Al Mega Follow on: Twitter | Instagram | Facebook): @TheRealAlMega / @ComicCrusaders Make sure to Like/Share/Subscribe if you haven't yet: https://www.youtube.com/c/comiccrusadersworld Twitch: https://www.twitch.tv/comiccrusaders Visit the official Comic Crusaders Comic Book Shop: comiccrusaders.shop Visit the OFFICIAL Comic Crusaders Swag Shop at: comiccrusaders.us Main Site: https://www.comiccrusaders.com/​​​​ Sister Site: http://www.undercovercapes.com​​​​ Pick up official Undercover Capes Podcast Network merchandise exclusively on RedBubble.com: bit.ly/UCPNMerch Streamyard is the platform of choice used by Comic Crusaders and The Undercover Capes Podcast Network to stream! Check out their premium plans for this amazing and versatile tool, sign up now: https://bit.ly/ComicCrusadersStreamyard * Edited/Produced/Directed by Al Mega

By Davy Crockett You can read, listen, or watch Ultrarunners/Pedestrians of the late 1800s were a unique breed of determined and aggressive individuals who were in the sport primarily trying to cash in on the huge prize money potential and to get their names in the newspapers as “world champions.” They would gladly endure the torture of running hundreds of miles in a week for a perceived easy way to earn life-changing money. Such opportunities obviously attracted individuals that weren't necessarily the most outstanding citizens and had run-ins with the law. But the law and others at times wanted to bring down the sport and the athletes, and thus confrontations occurred. Please help the ultrarunning history effort continue by signing up to contribute a little each month through Patreon. https://www.patreon.com/ultrarunninghistory Race Accused of Disorderly Conduct in a Saloon In 1885, two female pedestrians, Emma Frazier (1861-1914) and Elizabeth Carr were arrested in Philadelphia at a saloon on Walnut Street, along with 25 spectators and the race manager, James B. Jamison (1830-1900) for disorderly conduct. A policeman visited the event and went to obtain an arrest warrant.  A raid was conducted, the race stopped, and arrests were made. It was discovered that Carr was a minor, aged 19. “The excitement over the match was at its height, some thirty persons being assembled in the bar and showroom. The raid had been carefully kept secret and was completely successful. Everybody in the house was taken out of it and marched in a melancholy procession to the Central Station where they were locked up to await a hearing the next morning. One of the young pedestrians had the good fortune to be wearing a calico skirt over her bloomer costume, but the other, in the regulation fancy dress tights and short jacket of red, was marched through the streets, to the amusement of the ‘groundlings.'” Walnut Street Theatre Jamison, who also had a retail store, had previous run-ins with the law and believed the raid “was a piece of spite work on the part of a neighbor with whom he was competing in business.” At the hearing, it was testified that the place was noisy and disorderly. “Mr. J. L. Grotenthaler, the owner of the competing business, said the place was interfering with his business, and he was losing his lady customers. Officer Watson said that he visited the place because of complaints that young girls were enticed into it. He saw a man guarding the entrance to the show room allowing nobody to enter without one of the checks presented by the barkeeper with each glass of beer or liquor sold. He saw both men and women drinking. Jamison was held for $1,000 to answer the charge of keeping a disorderly house and the other prisoners were released.” Mark All, the 60,000-mile Pedestrian Arrested Mark All (1828-1925), of England, was an interesting pedestrian character. He claimed to be one of the mega-mile “around the world” walkers of the time and claimed to be the “champion walker of the world.” Many stories are told about these journey walkers in episodes 38-45. Most of these professional walkers were taking advantage of the naïve Americans, but Mark All was a rare elderly walker who was entertaining the British. All was born in Greenwich, England in 1828 where he learned an electrical engineering career. For years he was employed by a firm of engineers. But during a great strike of 1897-98, he lost his employment. Since he was 72 years old, he made up his mind to start a walking tour and find employment wherever he could, to prove that a man isn't “used up” in old age. All claimed that he started a long walk on August 6, 1900, and walked 30,000 miles before his efforts were noticed by the sports newspapers of that era in 1904. He said that three of the papers raised a £500 prize for him if he could continue and reach 60,000 miles in a total of seven years. He was described as “a ruddy-faced,

Main Fiction: "Gubbinal" by Lavie TidharLavie Tidhar is author of Osama, The Violent Century, A Man Lies Dreaming, Central Station, Unholy Land, By Force Alone, The Hood and The Escapement. His latest novels are Maror and Neom. His work encompasses children's books (The Candy Mafia), comics (Adler), anthologies (The Best of World SF) and numerous short stories. His awards include the World Fantasy Award, the British Fantasy Award, the John W. Campbell Award, the Neukom Prize and the Jerwood Fiction Uncovered Prize, and he has been shortlisted for the Clarke Award and the Philip K. Dick Award amongst many others.This story originally appeared in Clarkesworld, no. 142, July, 2018.Narrated by: Rikki and Isis LaCosteRikki LaCoste is a veteran Canadian narrator from Toronto, of various short story audio magazines such as Tales To Terrify, the No Sleep Podcast, Cast of Wonders, Pseudopod, and StarShipSofa of course, as well as lending his voice—and voice acting—to other projects and podcasts. Today, Rikki is collaborating with his daughter Isis LaCoste, a chip off the old block. They have worked together before, to present various stories. In particular, the Cast of Wonders staff pick of 2015: a short science fiction tale by Ellen Klages called "Amicae Aeternum", in which Mur Lafferty's daughter, Fiona “Princess Scientist” Van Verth also appears.Unfortunately, Rikki lost everything in a terrible house fire and had to drop out of audio projects for a number of years.Fortunately, he and Isis are now back in business, Rikki is involved in various organizations to help the less fortunate, and Isis is about to enter college to be an animator…and today's story happens to be the very first audio project for their comeback debut.Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/starshipsofa. Our GDPR privacy policy was updated on August 8, 2022. Visit acast.com/privacy for more information.

Darcy Madsen of Crab Central Station returns to the podcast to discuss her incredible and compelling journey attempting to do something that has only been done a handful of times in history, breed hermit crabs in captivity! Darcy explains the life cycle of hermit crabs which start out in a microscopic planktonic larval stage and walks us through previous failed breeding attempts. Of course, we also discuss the recent successful breeding that saw Darcy and her two daughters, Brooke and Faith, bring more than 30 captive breed crabs to land. SHOW NOTES: https://www.animalsathomenetwork.com/126-ccs-2/