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Chapter 6 - The PortkeyINTRO - Character impressions in your mind.Harry felt as though he had barely lain down to sleep in Ron's room when he was being shaken awake by Mrs Weasley.Q1 - Is this the worst feeling ever? Non-snow days? What is the worst feeling as a kid?Q2 - You need a license to Apparate? Do you think anything else should require a license in the magical world?Q3 - What's the earliest you've ever woken up?[Portkeys are] objects that are used to transport wizards from one spot to another at a prearranged time.Q4 - Would you rather travel by broom, apparition, or portkey?Q5 - Amos Diggory works for the department of the regulation and control of magical creatures…did he vote yes to killing buckbeak?“I'm sure Harry'd say the same, wouldn't you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays on, you don't need to be a genius to tell which one's the better flier.”Q6 - How do you like Amos and Cedric?Q7 - Thoughts on the wizarding world spreading trash around the planet in the form of portkeys?Chapter 7 - Bagman and CrouchQ1 - If you had to hide a quidditch world cup game, how would you do it?“Been having a lot of trouble with him. Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him happy. And Ludo Bagman's not helping. Trotting around talking about Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his voice, not a worry about anti-Muggle security.”Q2 - How should they deal with Mr Roberts…should some Muggles just be able to know about Wizards?“Always the same.” said Mr Weasley, smiling, “we can't resist showing off when we get together.”Q3 - How do you like the magic of expanding something like the tent into being massive inside?It was only just dawning on Harry how many witches and wizards there must be in the world; he had never really thought much about those in other countries.Q4 - How large do you figure the wizarding world is? Q5 - There's a description of all sorts of other witches and wizards here, if you could travel to see magic from any other country in the world, where would you go visit?“I'm not putting them on [referring to the trousers],” said Old Archie in indignation. “I like a healthy breeze around my privates, thanks.”Harry laughed but didn't voice the amazement he felt at hearing about other Wizarding schools. He supposed, now that he saw representatives of so many nationalities in the campsite, that he had been stupid never to realize that Hogwarts couldn't be the only one.“That's Bode and Croaker…they're unspeakables.” “They're what?” “From the department of mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to.”Q6 - What do you think they do in the Department of Mysteries?Q7 - How do you like Bagman and Crouch? Which do you like more?“Ali Bashir's on the warpath. He wants a word with you about your embargo on flying carpets.” Mr Weasley heaved a deep sigh. “I sent him an owl about that just last week. If I've told him once I've told him a hundred times: carpets are defined as a Muggle Artifact by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he listen?”Q8 - Broom or Carpet?A sense of excitement rose like a palpable cloud over the campsite as the afternoon wore on. By dusk, the still summer air itself seemed to be quivering with anticipation, and as darkness spread like a curtain over the thousands of waiting wizards, the last vestiges of pretense disappeared: the Ministry seemed to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic now breaking out everywhere.Q9 - Harry gets Ron omnioculars…is he cheap for saying he won't get anything for him for Christmas?And then a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and, at once, green and red lanterns blazed into life in the trees, lighting a path to the pitch.Chapter 8 - The Quidditch World Cup“Ah, sir,” said Winky, shaking her head, “ah, sir, meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure you did Dobby a favor, sir, when you is setting him free.”Q1 - What do you think of House Elves? Should they be set free?Q2 - Do you think it's cruel to have a house elf sit at the booth who is afraid of heights just to save a seat?She would have been nice looking if she hadn't been wearing a look that suggested there was a nasty smell under her nose.Q3 - What are your thoughts on the Veela and the Leprechauns? Q4 - What would the American mascot be?Q5 - What do you think of Victor Krum?Q6 - Would you want to go to this game?Q7 - Was Krum an idiot for ending the game when they were down too much?Chapter 9 - The Dark Mark“Get up! Ron — Harry — come on now, get up, this is urgent!” Harry sat up quickly and the top of his head hit canvas. “S'matter?” he said. Dimly. He could tell that something was wrong. The noises in the campsite had changed. The singing had stopped. He could hear screams, and the sound of people running.Q1 - Have you ever been in a riot or a situation this scary?Q2 - What do you think of these masked people's actions?The colored lanterns that had lit the path to the stadium had been extinguished. Dark figures were blundering through the trees; children were crying; anxious shouts and panicked voices were reverberating around them in the cold night air. Harry felt himself being pushed hither and thither by people whose faces he could not see. Then he heard Ron yell with pain.Q3 - Do you think Lucious might be out there among the masked people?Q4 - How many magical schools do you think there are?A rustling noise nearby made all three of them jump. Winky the house-elf was fighting her way out of a clump of bushes nearby. She was moving in a most peculiar fashion, apparently with great difficulty; it was as though someone invisible were trying to hold her back.Q5 - Do you think Harry is right, that Winky is just disobeying, or do you think she was cursed?Q6 - Do you think Stan Shunpike would ever become minister of magic? And would he do better than Fudge?Q7 - What do you think Bagman was doing deep in the woods? Do you trust him?For a split second, Harry thought it was another leprechaun formation. Then he realized that it was a colossal skull, comprised of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As they watched, it rose higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation. Suddenly, the wood all around them erupted with screams. Harry didn't understand why, but the only possible cause was the sudden appearance of the skull, which had now risen high enough to illuminate the entire wood like some grisly neon sign. He scanned the darkness for the person who had conjured the skull, but he couldn't see anyone.Q8 - What do you think of the Dark Mark?Q9 - Do you think Crouch is good at his job or is he mad?"Here, look. " Mr. Diggory held up a wand and showed it to Mr. Weasley. "Had it in her hand. So that's clause three of the Code of Wand Use broken, for a start. No non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand."Q10 - Are wizards right to restrict wand usage to just humans?Q11 - What are your thoughts on Amos Diggory's interrogation style?Q12 - What do you think of the Prior Incantato spell?Q13 - What do you think of Mr Crouch and Winky's relationship?"Of course it's not Him," said Mr. Weasley impatiently. "We don't know who it was; it looks like they Disapparated. Now excuse me, please, I want to get to bed.”"I don't get it," said Ron, frowning. "I mean. . . it's still only a shape in the sky. . . " "Ron, You-Know-Who and his followers sent the Dark Mark into the air whenever they killed," said Mr. Weasley. "The terror it inspired. . . you have no idea, you're too young. Just picture coming home and finding the Dark Mark hovering over your house, and knowing what you're about to find inside. . . . " Mr. Weasley winced. "Everyone's worst fear. . . the very worst. . . " There was silence for a moment. Then Bill, removing the sheet from his arm to check on his cut, said, "Well, it didn't help us tonight, whoever conjured it. It scared the Death Eaters away the moment they saw it. They all Disapparated before we'd got near enough to unmask any of them. We caught the Robertses before they hit the ground, though. They're having their memories modified right now. " "Death Eaters?" said Harry. "What are Death Eaters?" "It's what You-Know-Who's supporters called themselves," said Bill. "I think we saw what's left of them tonight - the ones who managed to keep themselves out of Azkaban, anyway. "Q14 - Who do you think actually conjured the Dark Mark?Q15 - What do you think of the Death Eaters?
Are you tempted to skip over passages in Bible that contain messages of judgment? Katy Shelton, author of Forever Matters: How the Return of Jesus Completes You, a brand new devotional on the book of Revelation, actually helps us see God's great love in these messages! You can pre-order Forever Matters now, just about anywhere books are sold online! In addition to Forever Matters, Katy has co-authored Christmas Matters based on the book of Luke and Easter Matters, based on the book of John, with her good friend Anna Nash. Check out "What Matters - Let's Talk About It," a podcast with Katy Shelton and Anna Nash, that provides Bible readings for their devotional series. Coming soon...Katy and Anna will discuss each chapter of Revelation to accompany Forever Matters! If you would like to contact Katy, then please visit her website: katyshelton.com Follow Katy on Instagram: @katydshelton Follow "What Matters - Let's Talk About It" on Instagram: @whatmattersletstalk Follow the Meet Me in Isaiah Podcast on Instagram: @meetmeinisaiah You can now also subscribe and watch the Meet Me in Isaiah Podcast on YouTube! All music on this episode is courtesy of Project of Love. Check out their music on Spotify, YouTube, and more!
Overfuckingrated at SOAK 2023. IANDUSTRIAL. SHE WHO HAS NO NAME AT THE MOMENT. SPACE CADET. NATASHA. Ignition NW. Critical (Massive.) Counting the sex camps. Kinky Fucking Campers. Sex positivity. DTF = not a sex camp. RevoFUCKINGlution. AbsoFUCKINGlution. IPfuckingA. A glory hole shadow theater with corndogs. Main Burnarble Structure. Summer Camp. Cold S'mores. Flaming Giraffe Art Car. Big jellyfish. MANIMAL. CHEF JUKE. Also Burnout. The Burner Barn is a resource. EMILY goes as long as the song. Soul Train Christopher. BRC Welding & Repair. Other "friends." Blue Light District est. 1997. Swiss Space Bar. SENSEI STRANGE, indeed. Flipside. 6907 camp? APPARATUS. Seacompression. PABLOVEX? The interest is there. Unbroken Spring. Thinning the thicket. Shift. DIMLY. Massive massive. Bridge & tunnel volunteering. Train your replacement. BRATTY CAT. Not just one team. School of Burning Man Event Production. Can't sit still. Rainbow procession. MUSIC: "Your State Smells Like Cow Shit" by Late Bus JOIN OUR DISCORD: https://discord.gg/qXUb7hf6bd FOLLOW US ON BLUESKY: @accuracy3rd.bsky.social Patreon us on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/A3rd
In this episode, Dr. Fredrick J. Long (@greekmatterswithfredlong) examines 1 Corinthians 13:12 using the Constituent Marking Method. Tune in to learn more! ***GlossaHouse resources are available at our website! - https://glossahouse.com/ ✏️ ***Sign up for classes with GlossaHouse U - https://glossahouse.com/pages/classes
Chapter 32: The Woman Who Dimly Foresaw His Death
The Man with a Storm in His Eyes – Volume 4NOTE: If you have not listened to Volumes 1, 2 and 3 of this 4-part miniseries, please pause this episode, and go listen to the first three installments, otherwise the story won't make much sense.Over Thanksgiving I spent a few days house- and cat-sitting for a friend. The moment I met Russell the cat I was completely charmed by the milky cloudiness of his eyes. What fascinated me most was that he appeared to be able to see just fine... to the point where sometimes he appeared to be seeing things that I myself couldn't see. I found myself inspired and fully credit Russell with breaking through my writer's block.This story is available in written form in its entirety exclusively to Patreon Supporters, visit the link below to join.Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveriContact: theskylarkbell@gmail.comThe Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.comThe Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbellAuthor/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.comAll music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.comCannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.musicFULL TRANSCRIPT:Things with Wings Productions presents: The Man with a Storm in His Eyes - A Skylark Special Miniseries written exclusively for The Skylark Bell podcast. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri. Before I begin, if you haven't listened to the first three installments of this story, I strongly suggest you hit pause on this episode and go listen to volumes 1, 2 and 3, otherwise this episode won't make much sense. In last week's episode, Marie broke the sisters' one rule and brewed a cup of the forbidden tea for herself, but she was interrupted by their early return. Disgraced and embarrassed, she returned home... only for the twins to appear outside her window a few days later.Today we conclude this wild and eerie tale... fair warning, the ending made me cry the first time I re-read the story in its entirety.Lastly, I'd like to thank Lauren and Rachel for the use of their apartment over the Thanksgiving holiday. The opportunity to house and cat sit for them gave me the calm and space I needed to to start writing, and in the end, their cat, Russell, provided the inspiration for the story I wanted to write. The spark has grown into a flame, and there are more stories to come in the future, so stay tuned.But for now, it's time to get settled in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink... perhaps a handkerchief, just in case… and let's read the conclusion of The Man with a Storm in His Eyes. The spell broken, I shook my head and scurried down the stairs and out the front door to collect the book they had left behind. I ran my hand over the smoothness of its cover, and noted the leather was embossed with a collection of odd symbols. I clutched the book to my chest and hurried back up to my flat as quickly as my fuzzy slippers would allow, completely oblivious to the neighbours gawking at the sight of me outside in the cold wearing only a short frilly nighty. I threw myself onto the sofa and placed the book on my lap, puzzling over the symbols on the cover before unbuckling its leather strap and cracking it open. I flipped through the book haphazardly and was met with page upon page of tight cursive handwriting. Every so often I would land on a carefully drawn illustration with labels and notations. About halfway through the book I found a folded piece of paper tucked between the pages. I gingerly pulled it out, the ornate handwriting was different than the one filling up the pages of the book. I squinted in concentration as I began to read:Dearest Marie,You must have endless questions about the goings on at 51 Dimly Court. We did not mean for you to get pulled into the vortex of our stormy existence, and I apologise for our poor handling of the situation the day you left. Winifred and I have decided to share with you the story that is neither ours, nor Russell's, nor even little Jones'. The story is our mother's. Her name was Fiona Merriwell, and she was what many would, for better or worse, call... a witch. Our mother grew up in the “old world”, a time and culture filled with mystique and superstition. It would be easy to brush aside these traditions as hogwash, but as you now know, there was truth to at least some of it. Our maternal grandmother was a gifted seer and would warn people of things to come, or describe things that had happened long before any of them were born. Our mother was always envious of this gift, but her talents lay elsewhere. She was an expert healer and could create concoctions to heal most ailments common in her time. Her one wish, however, was to find a way to recreate her mother's capabilities using her knowledge of plants, herbs, tinctures, and the like. She made it her life mission... and it cost not only her, but several of us dearly. The teas in the canisters were created by her, and she was the last one to brew a cup, until you came along, of course... but I'm getting ahead of myself. Our mother raised us on her own after our father passed away. She worked odd jobs and kept herself busy making salves and teas to sell at local markets. Behind the scenes, however, she continued to work on her plan to create a tea that would allow her to see through veils of time, and she eventually succeeded, but things did not go as planned. She had just finished perfecting a recipe one day when there was a knock at the door. A young man, sharply dressed in a grey wool suit, stood on our front steps, he was selling top-of-the-line cookware. Our mother, always willing to indulge young entrepreneurs, invited him in and put the kettle on. She was fully intending to simply listen to his presentation, but as their conversation wore on an idea crossed her mind. The young man mentioned that his brother had recently passed away, and that he missed his him terribly, and wished he could see him again, if only for a moment. The gears in our mother's mind began turning; if she served her tea to the young man and it was effective, it might provide him with an opportunity to see his brother again, and if it failed, he would be none-the-wiser and would simply have enjoyed a nice cup of tea, no harm done.I must say at this point that our mother was neither conniving nor cruel, she was entirely under the impression that the effects of the tea would be temporary, there was no way for her to know her spontaneous decision and, ironically, lack of foresight would change the course of all our lives.And so it was that Russell J. Holcomb, luxury cookware salesman, came to sit at our kitchen table and drink the tea our mother had aptly named Violet Storm. He remained in our kitchen for a few hours, demonstrating his goods. Winifred and I came home our jobs at the hospital partway through his sales pitch and sat at the table listening to him, enthralled. Russell was very charismatic; he would certainly have had a successful career in sales if he had never had the misfortune of knocking on our door. Winifred was especially taken with him; she would later tell me it was his smile that won her over so quickly. Little did she know we would only rarely ever see that smile again.We were there when the tea began to take effect. I remember it so clearly because, unfortunately for Russell, there was a storm brewing outside. Winifred and I had rushed home from work due to the dark, threatening clouds hovering in the sky above. We would later learn that stormy weather exacerbates the effects of this specific tea... but once again, I'm getting ahead of myself. Russell was just finishing a demonstration that involved cooking an omelet, he slid it onto a plate and placed it on the table for us to see. It was then that he stumbled backwards and fell to the floor. His eyes darted back and forth as a mist began to rise in them. He started to shake and pointed at something behind us. The three of us turned in unison, but there was nothing there. Our mother crouched next to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and asked if he was okay. Through rapid breaths Russell explained that he could see other people, dozens of other people, all semi-transparent, moving throughout the kitchen. Walking, cooking, sitting at the table... he could even see different furniture, and he could see grass on the ground as well as different versions of the kitchen floor, layer upon layer upon layer of the past all visible at once. He let out a scream that still echoes in my mind to this day, then squeezed his eyes shut and clutched his head in his hands shouting, “Make it stop! Please! Make them go away! Make it all go away!”Distraught, our mother wrapped a dishtowel around his eyes and tied it at the back of his head, then lead him to the sofa to lay down and wait until the effect of the tea wore off. Once the storm passed the effects did diminish considerably, but the clouds never left Russell's eyes, and he never stopped seeing relics of the past all around him at all times. Our mother settled him in the empty flat upstairs, no one had lived there for years, and it didn't have much of a past to speak of, or see. The outside world was far too overwhelming for Russell, so he remained in the upstairs flat from that day forward. Because he had no family to speak of, Russell decided it was best to leave him flagged as a missing person to the outside world, it seemed simpler than trying to explain the reality of what had happened. The four of us agreed to never speak of that day's events, and our mother immediately set to work trying to create a remedy.Days turned into weeks and months. Winifred spent a lot of time upstairs keeping Russell company, and the two fell deeply in love. One day our mother announced she had come up with a remedy, a tea she called Black Moon. She brewed a pot, and Winifred volunteered to bring it up to Russell, promising to report back if it had any noticeable effects. But as Winifred was climbing the stairs to the apartment, a shadow of doubt came over her... What if this new concoction made Russell worse? Her heart ached at the thought of involuntarily harming him in any way, so she sat on the top stair outside his door and slowly drank the cup of tea herself to see how it would affect her before giving any to Russell. Russell never did drink any Black Moon tea, because within a short period of time Winifred came crashing down the stairs screaming and waving her arms in the air as though swatting away a swarm of bees. Unlike Russell, her eyes never clouded over, instead they turned into two deep, dark, inky pools. We came to discover that Winifred was now plagued with incessant visions of the future: Buildings being torn down, new ones being erected, wars, unrest, and the cacophony of centuries of living beyond anything she'd ever known... Her condition worsened during the new moon when the sky was at its darkest. On these nights, her existence became nearly unbearable. Layers of the future would wrap around her like a snake wraps its body around its prey, squeezing the air out of its lungs, and effectively crushing it. On these nights,Winnifred would wear a blindfold, which helped to alleviate some of the stress of her condition. I paused my reading then, thinking back to Christmas Eve dinner with Russell, and his odd behaviour as the storm rolled in. He must have been suffering through a similar experience, a ramping up of the effects of his condition... My heart ached for him, for Winifred who was similarly afflicted, for Florence who was tasked with caring for them both, and for Jones the cat who had now joined their ranks. I heaved a sigh, then dove back into the letter. In our mother's mind, the tea she had concocted to view the future would have cancelled out the tea Russell had ingested which gave him visions of the past, but after seeing what happened to Winifred, we didn't dare let him drink any. It became difficult for Russell and Winifred to be in the same room, they were essentially living on different plains now, he in the past, she in the future, with only a bridge of present between them so small they could never stand on it long enough to truly be in one another's company. Heartbroken, Winnifred stopped going upstairs to visit, and only rarely ever spoke.Our mother, devastated by the tragedy she had inadvertently unleashed on our family, made one last attempt at setting things straight. She poured over her craft for several months, studying herbs and tinctures used by our ancestors. Some ingredients she foraged for herself, others she sourced locally or from overseas, until finally one day she came to us with the resulting Golden Sunset tea. This tea, she was certain, would fix both Winifred and Russell's conditions, but she insisted she would drink a cup first to ensure there were no unexpected results. As you may have guessed, the results were, indeed, unexpected, and very tragic.The last entry in our mother's book was written moments after she drank the Golden Sunset tea. She detailed a scene from the future, of a young woman living in our flat, and a cat named Jones with glowing amber eyes. She said this woman would be instrumental to the future of our family history as she would carry on guarding the tea until she reached the age of 93. That is where the diary ends, there were no details beyond that.After drinking her tea and writing in her diary, our mother walked out our front door and stood on the stoop. Winifred and I stood at the window, watching her back as she stared at the world outside, motionless. Perhaps a few minutes went by, perhaps a few hours, neither one of us could tell, but eventually our mother exclaimed “It's all so beautiful!”, then she fell to the ground. Shaken out of our reverie we ran to her, but she was already gone. Presumably, whatever it was the tea caused her to see, it was more than the human mind and body could take.In the decades that followed I continued to care for Mr. Holcomb and Winifred. Winifred would provide guidance on future events and occurrences, which is how we knew you were planning on drinking the tea, and that we were going to arrive just in time to stop you. We tried to change the course of history and arrive in time to also prevent Jones from drinking the tea, but as with every other time we've attempted to change the future, we failed.From what Winifred has shared, and she only shares things she feels are absolutely necessary, I am to make you the beneficiary of our estate upon our passing, which, Winifred has assured me, is much farther away than anyone would ever dream. Perhaps our mother's longevity tea worked better than her other ones. I wish you all the best Marie. We shall not see you again after today, but from what I can gather, someday in the distant future, you will once again see us. Take care,FlorenceI refolded the letter and placed it back between the pages of the book, then closed the cover, re-buckled the strap, and placed the book on the coffee table in front of me. There would be ample time to sift through its pages down the road, right now I needed to process the events of the past week.I carried on with my life over the next few days. Those days turned into weeks, months, years, and before I knew it nearly three decades had gone by. In that time, I earned a nursing degree and used some of the knowledge from Fiona's diary to help patients. I married and divorced, had two children whose careers eventually took them to opposite ends of the country, adopted and went through the heartache of saying goodbye to 3 different cats, all with glowing amber eyes, and... well... I grew older. Not nearly as old as the twins however, who died within days of one another at the ripe old age of 103. It was on a Wednesday afternoon a couple of weeks after the twins' passing that my postman Gordy placed a small package on the stoop outside my front door. I happened to be looking out the window when he came and waved to him as he carried on to my neighbour's house. He smiled and waved back; he was always such a pleasant young man. I reached into my post box and pulled out a small stack of letters, then bent down to pick up the package. I felt my stomach tighten when I saw the return address for the solicitor's office on the parcel. I knew this day would come, this wasn't a surprise per se, and I had only briefly met the sisters on two occasions nearly 30 years ago, yet I still felt the sting of tears in my eyes. Inside the package was a letter from the solicitor detailing the legal intricacies of the estate and the steps I needed to take to finalise things. The only other item in the box was an old antique key. I recognized it immediately as the key Florence had left for me that fateful day all those years ago. I placed the key in my palm and closed my fingers around it. If I focused enough, I could almost feel a low electrical pulse emanating from it.My first time stepping back through the front door of 51 Dimly court was surreal. Everything was exactly the same as it had been the last time I was there. Every trinket, every book, every curtain and pillow and blanket, even down to the plush towel and robe set I had used after taking a bath that Boxing Day afternoon three decades ago. I walked through the flat in wonder, gently tracing my finger along the edges of the sisters' belongings, the items strewn atop their dressers and vanities. Winifred's copy of The House on the Strand was still on her nightstand, I understood the significance now, with her experiencing time differently than the rest of us. I stood at the bottom of the stairway to Russel's flat for a long time staring at the off-center number 7 on the door. I'd read his obituary years ago, I'd lost track of how long it had been exactly, but I remembered it said he had passed peacefully in his sleep with his loved ones, presumably Winifred and Florence, by his side. Eventually I made my way up the stairs and let myself into Russell's flat, which was also frozen in time. I stepped into his office, noting his satchel was still on the desk. I peered inside and saw a collection of marketing materials for cookware. This was the bag he was carrying the day he disappeared, that fateful day he met Fiona Merriwell and her enchanted, or cursed depending on how one views these things, collection of teas.I stepped into the little kitchen; bright sunshine was streaming through the window. I smiled as I remembered sitting at the table sharing a meal with Russell, telling stories, and laughing together. He was a lovely man, lovely and lonely. His fate was not one anyone would have been envious of, unable to leave the confines of his apartment, destined to pine away for an impossible love just within his reach but never attainable... my heart ached for him.I lived on in the flat for forty more years, keeping everything the same as it had always been. I eventually retired from my decades-long career as head nurse at a care home, and before I knew it found myself older than the twins were when I first met them. I surprised myself gravitating toward some of Florence's dresses and coats. Winifred's wardrobe, however, remained too gothic for my taste. As time wore on, I became rather uninterested in the outside world, preferring to focus on my own private little secret world inside the sisters' flat. I never stopped thinking of it as the sisters' flat. My children rarely visited and would only stay in town long enough for a meal, always at a fancy restaurant of course, before returning to their busy lives, and I was okay with that because they were happy.And now we've come to today. Today is my 93rd birthday. I am celebrating alone, and rather enjoying my own company. I finished my cup of tea 15 minutes ago; I can feel its effect taking hold. I see a warm glow around everything in the flat, as though every object has been wrapped in goldleaf and the setting sun is shining through the window, even though in reality today the sky is grey and loaded with a mass of storm clouds. I walk to the sitting room and lower my tired body into a chair by the window, turning to face the inside of the room. I watch as the past fades into view. I see Florence and Winifred as children with their mother reading stories by the fireplace, the same fireplace in which the contents of the tea canisters and Fiona's diary are burning right now. I see young Russell looking dapper in his grey wool suit with his satchel strapped over his shoulder, he's coming in to do a presentation of the luxury cookware he is selling, and Fiona is guiding him toward the kitchen. I see all the events Florence described in her letter unfold before my eyes.Eventually I see myself walking into the flat for the first time, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other waiting for Winifred to speak through the garish red lipstick streaked across her mouth. I marvel at my youth, how naïve and innocent I was then. I watch the entire Christmas holiday unfold, cooking for Mr. Holcomb, rushing outside to rescue Jones, cuddling with him on the sofa, staring into his beautiful golden eyes. Then the fateful night when he drank the tea...Layers of past begin to pile atop one another in rapid succession now, and I see events flash before me. First, I watch the twins grow old and eventually disappear altogether. Then I see myself, older, but still young by my current standards, returning to the flat after several decades away. I watch myself age at a breakneck pace and eventually see myself, dressed the way I am dressed right now, walk into the room. I gasp as I catch of glimpse of my eyes, now turned into two glowing orbs filled with a swirling mass of mauve, gold, coral, and burnt orange. Now I understand why Fiona named this tea Golden Sunset. I watch as I gingerly lower myself into the chair I am sitting in at this very moment. That's when things truly take off, when past, present and future finally collide.In a flash of amber, coral, and lilac everything sets off at lightning speed. I see the future, I see what happens to me, what happens in the decades and centuries beyond this moment in time. I see the people who lived here before the twins, before Fiona, and those who will live here after. I see the field that was here before the apartment building, and the structure that will be built after its demolition decades from now. I turn to look out the window, the view is breathtaking. I can see everything that has come before and everything yet to come, all awash in a swirl sunset colours. It's chaotic, it's heartbreaking, it's electric, it's inspiring, it's... life......and it's all so beautiful.Thank you so much for listening, I truly hope you enjoyed The Man with a Storm in His Eyes. It has been my pleasure to write and record this story for you, and I am very much looking forward to doing it again. Stay tuned for more spooky and unusual tales in the future!If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they are both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work by subscribing to Patreon. Patreon supporters get early access to ad-free podcast episodes, digital downloads of my music, and so much more. It's the first place I share my creations. However, if you prefer not to subscribe, but would like to make a one-time contribution, you can do so via your podcast platform. Any and all financial support is greatly appreciated.Once again, thank you for listening – I'm Melissa Oliveri, writer, composer, and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast. Support this podcast at — https://redcircle.com/theskylarkbell/exclusive-contentAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy
The Man with a Storm in His Eyes – Volume 3NOTE: If you have not listened to Volumes 1 and 2 of this 4-part miniseries, please pause this episode, and go listen to the first two installments, otherwise the story won't make much sense.Over Thanksgiving I spent a few days house- and cat-sitting for a friend. The moment I met Russell the cat I was completely charmed by the milky cloudiness of his eyes. What fascinated me most was that he appeared to be able to see just fine... to the point where sometimes he appeared to be seeing things that I myself couldn't see. I found myself inspired and fully credit Russell with breaking through my writer's block.This story is available in written form in its entirety exclusively to Patreon Supporters, visit the link below to join.Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveriContact: theskylarkbell@gmail.comThe Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.comThe Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbellAuthor/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.comAll music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.comCannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.musicFULL TRANSCRIPT:Things with Wings Productions presents: The Man with a Storm in His Eyes - A Skylark Special Miniseries written exclusively for The Skylark Bell podcast. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri. Before I begin, if you haven't listened to the first two installments of this story, I strongly suggest you hit pause on this episode and go listen to volume 1 and volume 2, otherwise this episode won't make much sense. In last week's episode, Marie rescued a kitten named Jones, and made the startling discovery that Mr. Holcomb had been labeled a missing person decades prior.Now, get settled in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… and let's dive back into the story.I didn't need to worry about waking the next morning as Jones took it upon himself to serve as an alarm clock when he felt it was time to be fed. “You little rascal, you're just loving this aren't you?” I teased as I placed a bowl of turkey pieces with a strong pour of gravy in front of him. I was about to go take a shower when the phone on the kitchen wall rang so loudly I was sure the neighbours three houses away could hear it. I grabbed my chest with my hand and waited a moment to catch my breath before lifting the receiver off the hook. “Hello?” I asked tentatively. “Oh, hello Marie dear, this is Florence,” came the voice on the other end of the line. “I was simply calling to let you know we plan on returning home early tomorrow morning. I trust things are going well?” she asked.I could still feel my heart beating out of my chest, but I managed to compose myself enough to reply. “Yes, everything is great. Mr. Holcomb is quite lovely. Oh, I should probably tell you, I found a stray kitten that I'm caring for, I hope that's okay?” I figured I should probably make mention of the fact that I'd brought an animal into their home.There was a moment of silence at the other end of the line, and I grew nervous that Florence was displeased. “That's quite alright dear. I'm sure Jones is thoroughly enjoying spending the holidays with you,” she eventually replied, and I heaved a sigh of relief. “Right then, we'll see you in the morning,” she added before promptly ending the call.I put the phone back in its cradle. Something about the conversation was bothering me... I stood barefoot on the cold ceramic kitchen floor running the conversation through my head again, then it finally hit me: How did Florence know the kitten's name was Jones? On cue, Jones wandered into the room and rubbed up against my legs. I picked him up and held him at arm's length. Of course! Jones had a name tag, perhaps Florence had seen him before, maybe he even had a reputation for visiting neighbourhood homes and getting a few extra meals out of it. “I knew you were a rascal!” I giggled. I pulled him in and bumped my nose against his, mesmerized by those unearthly amber eyes, before gently placing him back on the ground.I showered and put on a festive sweater and some dressy trousers before heading upstairs to join Mr. Holcomb for Boxing Day breakfast. I told him about the rowdy boys and the kitten, and how Jones and I had eaten Christmas dinner by candlelight before I spent a couple of hours reading Alice in Wonderland in the reading room. I was itching to ask him about the newspaper clippings, but something about his expression stopped me. His brow was knit, and his eyes had turned that stormy charcoal grey again. I realized then that I'd been speaking non-stop since we'd sat down, so I quieted myself and waited for him to speak.“So... Jones is here now,” was all he said. I nodded but wasn't sure if he noticed as he seemed to be staring off into space. I let the quiet linger between us, hoping he would elaborate, but his lips remained tightly pressed together.“Mr. Holcomb...” I began, unsure of how to broach the subject. “Your questions will all be answered in due time, my dear Marie,” he said, sparing me the trouble of asking. “There are things that should not be known before one is ready to know them...” he mused obscurely, still with that faraway, stormy look in his eyes. I didn't dare ask him to elaborate, I would just have to be patient. We spent the rest of breakfast speaking of innocuous things; childhood Christmas gifts, funny stories about relatives falling off chairs or spilling food and drink on one another at holiday parties. Though we only talked about surface things, the conversation was merry, and Mr. Holcomb's eyes progressively morphed from steely grey to an appealing feathery white.It was past noon by the time I got back downstairs to the sisters' flat. Jones meowed at me in greeting and climbed up my shin to be picked up. I curled him into my arms like a baby and stared into his eyes, bordering on chartreuse in the midday light, while feeling the soft rumble of his purring against my chest. I felt the weight of the world disappear then, there was such comfort in the softness of his fur and his desire for companionship. A sudden chill passed through the air causing Jones and I to shiver in unison. “I think I'm going to run a bath,” I said, lowering him to the hardwood floor. “Don't worry, I have no expectation that you will want to get anywhere near the water,” I laughed. “Why don't I make a fire in the fireplace for you, and you can wait for me on the sofa with a blanket?” I suddenly became aware that I was speaking to Jones as though he were human and felt simultaneously ridiculous and grateful that there was no one around to hear. I got Jones settled then made my way to the bathroom. I took the time to admire the vintage Art Deco tile pattern on the floor and walls before turning the hot water faucet on the claw foot tub to its maximum, then adding a bit of cold water and two capfuls of green apple bath bubbles. I placed a thick fluffy towel and a bathrobe on a nearby wooden stool in preparation for the aftermath of my soak, then draped my clothes over the edge of the sink before carefully slipping into the steaming hot water. I closed my eyes and breathed in the sweet, fruity fragrance while listening to the crackling of the bubbles.I sat quietly in the tub, keeping thoughts of cloudy eyes and mysterious disappearances at bay, choosing to think instead of what I would prepare for dinner and which tea from the three forbidden tea canisters I would brew first. Eventually the water grew uncomfortably tepid, and the skin on my fingers began to wrinkle. I used my toe to pull the chain attached to the bathtub stopper and let the water drain a moment before standing to step out of the tub. The towel and bathrobe were both luxuriously plush, and I relished the warm, cozy feeling of being wrapped in them. I walked to the living room and rooted through my weekender bag for a fresh change of clothes. Jones was fast asleep on the sofa, curled up on a throw pillow with the glow of the fire reflecting off the sheen of his velvety fur.I made my way to the kitchen and perused the pantry and refrigerator contents for inspiration. I grabbed some zucchini, carrots, peas, and broccoli from the fridge and a box of pasta out of the cupboard. With a little butter, cream, and spoonful of flour I could whip together a mean pasta primavera, there was even a block of fresh parmesan cheese in the fridge to top it all off. I still had leftover rum raisin cake and custard for dessert. “That will pair perfectly with a cup of forbidden tea!” I chucked to myself out loud in the empty kitchen. I set to work making a roux and roasting the vegetables. My mum had always loved my pasta primavera; the secret was roasting the vegetables rather than boiling or steaming them, the caramelization added a lovely depth of flavour to the dish. “Jones, time to eat!” I called as I placed a bowl of shredded turkey with a dollop of cream sauce at his place setting across the table from me. I set my plate on the table as well, then gave each of us a generous sprinkle of parmesan. “Now I don't want you to think this is what you get to eat every day, this is a Boxing Day special, okay?” I said to him as he hopped onto the table. I patted the top of his head then sat down to eat. A flood of memories of suppers with my mother came to me as I took my first bite. I could see her smile, hear her laugh... what I wouldn't do to see and hear her again...Jones finished his meal long before I did and stretched out in front of the stove, rolling onto his back to let its warmth tickle his belly. I cleared the table and quickly did the washing up, then put the kettle on. While waiting for the water to boil I unwrapped the rum raisin cake, cut a generous piece and placed it onto a plate. “Perfect timing!” I exclaimed as the kettle sounded its whistle. I turned off the stove, then stood in front of the shelf with the three glass tea canisters, I hadn't yet decided which one I was going to brew. I noticed a label at the bottom of each one, and squinted to read the ornate cursive handwriting in hopes it would help inform my decision. I started with the canister to the left, the tea inside was black and appeared rather nondescript. “Dark Moon, sounds like something Winifred would come up with!” I said, laughing at my own humour. I moved on to the next canister, the tea inside was shades of purple with delicate dark pink rose petals mixed in, its label read “Violet Storm”. Intriguing! The last canister was filled with a mixture of gold tea leaves, yellow and orange flower petals, and citrus rinds, the label on that one read “Golden Sunset”. I pondered a moment longer, and decided Violet Storm sounded like a good accompaniment to rum raisin cake. I gingerly lifted the canister off the shelf and placed it on the counter. I popped open its lid, and the aroma of lavender, elderberry, hibiscus, and a strange sickly-sweet smell I couldn't pinpoint rose from its contents. I found a scoop in the utensil drawer and placed three spoonfulls into the infuser part of the teapot, then poured the boiling water in and stepped away to let it steep for a few minutes. I walked to the stove and crouched next to Jones, running my hand over the sleek fur of his body. He looked up at me with those amber eyes and blinked that slow blink cats do when they're rather satisfied with their circumstances; a full belly, a warm napping spot, and a human to do their bidding. I finally admitted to myself that I'd grown unusually attached to this kitten over the past couple of days, as though we were kindred spirits from the start.“Tea time!” I said as I stood up. I poured tea from the pot into the teacup Mr. Holcomb had gifted me. I left the teacup on the counter while I brought my plate of cake and the little pot of custard to the table. Then I grabbed the saucer with the teacup precariously balanced on it and held it up to my face, breathing in the steam. The unidentified sweet smell was even more pungent now, and I desperately wondered what it would taste like. I shifted the saucer to my other hand and grabbed the teacup by its delicate handle, slowly lifting it to my mouth. Suddenly, a loud slam came from behind me. Startled beyond belief I jumped and spun on my heel. Before I could wrap my brain around what was happening the teacup flew out of my hand and went crashing to the floor, leaving the echo of a shattering sound ringing through the kitchen. I stared in shock at the purple streak of tea spreading across the black and white tile of the floor.“I told you not to drink the tea!”I gathered my wits about me and looked up. Standing a few paces away was Winifred. She had a small cut on her hand, presumably from when she slapped the teacup out of my grasp. It took me a moment to notice Florence was standing directly next to her. “Oh dear,” breathed Florence, looking at something behind me with sadness in her eyes. I turned and saw Jones voraciously drinking from the puddle of tea on the floor.“Oh Jones, that's not for you!” I said, bending to pull him into my arms.“It's too late,” croaked Winifred. I instantly recognized the voice on the phone that stormy Christmas Eve night in Mr. Holcomb's flat. What in the world was going on?!“I- I wasn't expecting you back so soon,” I stumbled over my words, both nervous and embarrassed. “Winifred felt strongly that we should come home early,” said Florence. “It's probably best that you go home now, Marie,” she added. Her voice was neutral, neither kind nor unkind, neither soft nor stern. I sheepishly bent to clean up the mess of broken porcelain on the floor. “Leave it,” she said. I kept my gaze glued to the floor and withdrew to the living room to tidy up and pack my things.As I made my way into the hall Jones sauntered over and looked up at me with those glorious glowing yellow eyes. I pondered whether I should scoop him up and take him with me, but Winifred came through the doorway to the right and stood between us, her inky eyes piercing into my soul, and slowly shook her head no. I muttered an apology and made a swift exit.I wallowed in self-pity and embarrassment for a few days, then decided to leave the confines of my flat to take a walk. I wandered through the woods where the crows cawed to one another as though saying “Look at that ridiculous girl, a guest in someone's home and doing as she pleases with no regard for them!” I felt disgraced, and disappointed in myself. Making a cup of tea seemed like such a small, innocuous, harmless thing at the time, but clearly it wasn't, clearly there was a valid reason why the sisters had forbidden it... and I should have respected their wishes.I wandered aimlessly, stopping at one point to select a drink at the local café. I stared hopelessly at the menu board, unable to make up my mind, and finally settled on some iced tea, then chuckled bitterly at the irony of my selection. My walk eventually took me to the top of Dimly Court. I looked down the street past the brick row houses and perfectly manicured shrubs, hesitating. Would it be out of place for me to walk by? The sisters were hermits, the odds of one of them seeing me were rather low. I decided to take my chances and turned onto their street. Every window covering at 51 Dimly court was drawn, but I could see Jones' silhouette sitting on the windowsill, the patterned chenille of the drapes hanging behind him like backdrop. I stood in front of the window, admiring the velvety sheen of his coat. “Jones!” I whispered as loudly as I dared. The kitten turned his head and I gasped. I instinctively took a step back and nearly tumbled off walkway. In the place of those glorious golden eyes that I had stared into just days before were two orbs filled with a swirl of thunderous grey clouds. The cat's head suddenly darted back and forth as though watching something behind me. I turned to look but there was nothing there. I stood on the empty street watching him get increasingly agitated. “Oh Jones, what happened to you?” I choked. Suddenly, the curtain was pulled aside and Winifred's pallid face came into view, that eternal streak of red lipstick still across her mouth. Her carbon-coloured eyes locked firmly on me as she pulled the kitten into her arms, then she quickly stepped back into the shadows from whence she came. The curtain closed behind her, a supple but effective barrier between us.I trudged back home in slow, plodding steps, my head hung low. My mind, however, was in overdrive. Jones' eyes were now in the same condition as Mr. Holcomb's... what on earth could have caused it? I let different scenarios play out my head, then stopped dead in my tracks as it hit me: The tea! It had to be the tea! That would explain why the sisters had instructed me not to drink it. Jones had lapped it up after it spilled on the floor, and now he had a storm in his eyes. I let the swirling thoughts keep coming; perhaps Mr. Holcomb had ingested some of the tea as well, and that's how he ended up the way he did. I suddenly remembered the glimpse of him I'd caught the night of the storm when he'd sat rod-straight in his chair, a blindfold strapped across his eyes. My next thought sent a shiver down my spine... What was it he was avoiding looking at that night? What was it, exactly, that Jones and Mr. Holcomb were able to see with those cloudy eyes that I apparently could not? I shuddered as I realised how closely I had come to joining their ranks.I spent the next few days alone, only going out for the odd walk in the woods and to do a bit of shopping at times when I was least likely to encounter other people. Thankfully, I didn't have to return to work until after the holidays. I rang in the new year by myself in my dark living room, doing my best to ignore the cacophony of the festivities outside the walls of my apartment. I simply wasn't in a celebratory mood, and other people's cheer was the last thing I needed.I woke at the crack of dawn the first day of the new year with the unsettling feeling that something was amiss. I heard the sound of a car door outside my window, and got out of bed, tugging my twisted nighty back into place. I slid into my fuzzy slippers, then walked to the living room so I could look out the front windows. My stomach clenched instantly. There, standing immobile on the walkway to my apartment building, a black 1940s style car parked behind them, were the twins. Winifred was dressed all in black with a black strip of fabric draped over her eyes, which made her white powdery makeup and smear of red lipstick stand out even more. In complete contrast, Florence was decked out in a floral dress with a long brown chequered coat draped over her shoulders. The sisters' arms were laced together, presumably so Florence could guide Winifred who surely couldn't see much, if anything, with the blindfold. Florence locked eyes with me, then carefully and deliberately bent down to place a brown leather-bound book onto the pavers of the walkway to my building. She gave me a small nod, then the pair turned and methodically walked back to the old-fashioned car. Florence helped Winifred get in her seat, then walked to the driver's side, and eased herself behind the wheel. I watched, equally confused, and mesmerized, as the pair drove off.Thank you so much for listening, I truly hope you enjoyed this third installment of The Man with a Storm in His Eyes.Be sure to check in next week for the final portion of the story!If you enjoyed this episode, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they are both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work by subscribing to Patreon. Patreon supporters get early access to ad-free podcast episodes, digital downloads of my music, and so much more. It's the first place I share my creations. However, if you prefer not to subscribe, but would like to make a one-time contribution, you can do so via your podcast platform. Any and all financial support is greatly appreciated.Once again, thank you for listening – I'm Melissa Oliveri, writer, composer, and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast. Support this podcast at — https://redcircle.com/theskylarkbell/exclusive-contentAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy
This week Matt and Derek discuss the details of The Apostles Creed and whether Jesus, "descended into Hell." They talk in detail about what happened on the cross and whether Jesus was forsaken. They finish with a discussion on how we, "...see through a mirror dimly." Know the Creeds and Councils - Justin S. Holcomb https://www.amazon.com/Know-Creeds-Councils-Justin-Holcomb/dp/0310515092
Prayer Vigil and Communion Service Join Johnny Baptist and the believers in the chat room for a Holy Communion Service and an hour plus of united corporate prayer and praise helping to draw us closer to our Lord Jesus, and our awesome Heavenly Father God. This night we will pray together, share in some Biblical mysteries and partake in Holy Communion to honor our King. God Bless You - See you there! To sign up for radio show Email Notifications click Mail Link: http://gem.godaddy.com/signups/185380/join
In this blistering climax, answers await those behind the scene at the Smellcast studio: Before this episode is done, the cast asembled will hear an answer from Toppie that will decide the fate of all concerned. Sounds pretty dramatic, huh? Once again, featuring special guest star, IKK from the Shy Life Podcast with thanks to Paul Chandler! Write to Toppie at Smellcast@aol.com. Leave a comment on Toppie's blog! Follow him on Twitter. Friend Toppie on Facebook by emailing him YOUR FB name and link, then Toppie will find YOU and friend you! Rss feed: http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheSmellcast
TRUST GOD WHEN YOU DON'T UNDERSTANDKEY VERSE: NOW WE SEE IN A MIRROR, DIMLY, BUT THEN FACE TO FACE. 1 CORINTHIANS 13:12
Scripture : Matthew 2:1-8 Permalink
It's #Noirvember, which means a tip of the hat to the cynical, wisecracking anti-hero and the seductive, conniving femme fatale of FILM NOIR! Dimly-lit bars and alleyways, lots of cigarettes, stark contrasts between bright lights and shadows, fedoras and trench coats, and murder most foul abound in this stylized genre that dared to depict in the 40s and 50s the seedy side of the American Dream. 1944's 7-time Oscar nominee Double Indemnity is in the upper echelon of these character-driven crime thrillers, and Sorry, Wrong Number got Barbara Stanwyck her fourth Oscar nod for wrestling with a telephone receiver. Plus, the usual behind-the-scenes fun facts, poll results, and listener trivia segment!
Chapter 9 - The Dark Mark“Get up! Ron — Harry — come on now, get up, this is urgent!” Harry sat up quickly and the top of his head hit canvas. “S'matter?” he said. Dimly. He could tell that something was wrong. The noises in the campsite had changed. The singing had stopped. He could hear screams, and the sound of people running.Q1 - Have you ever been in a riot or a situation this scary?Q2 - What do you think of these masked people's actions?The colored lanterns that had lit the path to the stadium had been extinguished. Dark figures were blundering through the trees; children were crying; anxious shouts and panicked voices were reverberating around them in the cold night air. Harry felt himself being pushed hither and thither by people whose faces he could not see. Then he heard Ron yell with pain.Q3 - Do you think Lucious might be out there among the masked people?Q4 - How many magical schools do you think there are?A rustling noise nearby made all three of them jump. Winky the house-elf was fighting her way out of a clump of bushes nearby. She was moving in a most peculiar fashion, apparently with great difficulty; it was as though someone invisible were trying to hold her back.Q5 - Do you think Harry is right, that Winky is just disobeying, or do you think she was cursed?Q6 - Do you think Stan Shunpike would ever become minister of magic? And would he do better than Fudge?Q7 - What do you think Bagman was doing deep in the woods? Do you trust him?For a split second, Harry thought it was another leprechaun formation. Then he realized that it was a colossal skull, comprised of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As they watched, it rose higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation. Suddenly, the wood all around them erupted with screams. Harry didn't understand why, but the only possible cause was the sudden appearance of the skull, which had now risen high enough to illuminate the entire wood like some grisly neon sign. He scanned the darkness for the person who had conjured the skull, but he couldn't see anyone.Q8 - What do you think of the Dark Mark?Q9 - Do you think Crouch is good at his job or is he mad?"Here, look. " Mr. Diggory held up a wand and showed it to Mr. Weasley. "Had it in her hand. So that's clause three of the Code of Wand Use broken, for a start. No non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand."Q10 - Are wizards right to restrict wand usage to just humans?Q11 - What are your thoughts on Amos Diggory's interrogation style?Q12 - What do you think of the Prior Incantato spell?Q13 - What do you think of Mr Crouch and Winky's relationship?"Of course it's not Him," said Mr. Weasley impatiently. "We don't know who it was; it looks like they Disapparated. Now excuse me, please, I want to get to bed.”"I don't get it," said Ron, frowning. "I mean. . . it's still only a shape in the sky. . . " "Ron, You-Know-Who and his followers sent the Dark Mark into the air whenever they killed," said Mr. Weasley. "The terror it inspired. . . you have no idea, you're too young. Just picture coming home and finding the Dark Mark hovering over your house, and knowing what you're about to find inside. . . . " Mr. Weasley winced. "Everyone's worst fear. . . the very worst. . . " There was silence for a moment. Then Bill, removing the sheet from his arm to check on his cut, said, "Well, it didn't help us tonight, whoever conjured it. It scared the Death Eaters away the moment they saw it. They all Disapparated before we'd got near enough to unmask any of them. We caught the Robertses before they hit the ground, though. They're having their memories modified right now. " "Death Eaters?" said Harry. "What are Death Eaters?" "It's what You-Know-Who's supporters called themselves," said Bill. "I think we saw what's left of them tonight - the ones who managed to keep themselves out of Azkaban, anyway. "Q14 - Who do you think actually conjured the Dark Mark?Q15 - What do you think of the Death Eaters?Chapter 10 - Mayhem at the MinistryQ1 - Is it a little crazy that they slept at the campsite rather than just going back home?“I shouted at you before you left!” Mrs Weasley said, starting to sob. “It's all I've been thinking about! What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you was that you didn't get enough O.W.Ls? Oh, Fred … George …”Q2 - Do you remember the last thing you ever said to someone?“Ron,” said Hermione, in an I-don't-think-you're-being-very-sensitive sort of voice, “Harry doesn't want to play Quidditch right now... He's worried, and he's tired... We all need to go to bed...” “Yeah, I want to play Quidditch,” said Harry suddenly. “Hang on, I'll get my Firebolt.” Hermione left the room, muttering something that sounded very much like “Boys.”Q3 - What do you think about Rita Skeeter?“I'm never wearing them,” Ron was saying stubbornly. “Never.” “Fine,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “Go naked. And, Harry, make sure you get a picture of him. Goodness knows I could do with a laugh.”Q4 - What do you think is each character's main desire?
The Depths of the Grassby Michael Field (1846-1914 & 1862-1913)Look, in the early light, Down to the infinite Depths at the deep grass-roots; Where the sun shoots In golden veins, as looking through A dear pool one sees it do; Where campion drifts Its bladders, iris-brinded, through the rifts Of rising, falling seed That the winds lightly scour—Down to the matted earth where over And over again crow's-foot and clover And pink bindweed Dimly, steadily flower. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe
In this episode, our teacher will speak from various scripture on one of the greatest needs in the church, which is what it means to be a Spirit-filled Christian.
As we approach the solstice and the halfway point of the year are you maybe noticing the days are getting brighter outside, but not in you? Sometimes personal development and advice can feel overwhelming and not match your inner vibes. If you're feeling dim, or know you're prone to having your own dim days episode 72, Dimly, is for you. Today is all about how living brightly is more about walking your light than constant self optimization. Link in bio to listen. #DoItDimly #Dimly #SelfOptimization #ShineYourLight #DoYourBest
Rick talks about his conection to a hand-painted Rams football helmet dates back to 1940s and Rick disusses the upcoing Jose Ramirez fight. Dimly lit, the stone slab, or stele, doesn't look particularly noteworthy, especially when compared to the more lavish sphinxes, jewelry and cauldrons one encounters en route to the room where it is installed. The Food and Drug Administration on Friday postponed its review of Pfizer's COVID-19 vaccine for kids under 5. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
An enigma is someone, or something, that is mysterious or puzzling. That's how Paul describes the way we sometimes see God's work in our lives – although he uses a wonderful phrase to do it. He says, "For now we see in a mirror dimly." So while our vision is blurry, God gives us faith so that we can look forward in confidence to what our eyes can't see right now.
Jesus Is With Us When We SufferKey Verse: FOR NOW WE SEE IN A MIRROR, DIMLY, BUT THEN FAE TO FACE. NOW I KNOW IN PART, BUT THEN I SHALL KNOW JUST AS I ALSO AM KNOWN.1 Corinthians 13:12
TULSA TOP TEN: Part 2Date Night RestaurantsToday we are releasing a new episode from the Tulsa Top Ten series! Tulsa Top Ten is a series where I collaborate with local bloggers from Instagram to share their favorite places that the metro has to offer. This collaboration is with Instagram blogger Lindsay Morris. If you want to follow along, she is on Instagram at “Tulsa Places.” 10. Ti Amo: They've been in Tulsa for 30 years! Two romantic locations - 61st and Sheridan and downtown. Just their bruschetta alone is worth writing home about! My favorite Lasagna in town!9. Bull in the Alley: Talk about the mystery - green door with a tiny bull hanging over it. This place is swanky! And pricey. We're talking $25 for Creme Brulee. I had a steak and a side of potatoes when we went, and it was delish! There was also someone playing the piano. Very secluded, exclusive, VIP feel.8. Mahogany: great choice for an anniversary meal! Always exceptional, unpretentious service. These servers are true professionals. Exceptional steaks and au gratin potatoes. You have to finish your meal with their key lime pie!7. Polo Grill: it's a great lunch or dinner spot. They recently added patio seating. Expansive wine cellar. You must try their Lobster Bisque and Salmon “Tamale”.6. Stonehorse Cafe: Already mentioned in the patio seating category. I love their pizzas and a big glass of wine!5. Juniper: fresh, locally sourced food! The menu is very creative! Excellent service. You will never feel the same about brussel sprouts after eating theirs. Autumn Butternut Squash Soup! Be sure to get whatever Risotto is in season!4. Prhyme: another Justin Thompson restaurant. Picturesque Iceberg Salad. They are known for their steaks, but they also have lobster tail, lamb chops, and several other decadences.3. In the Raw Vu: Tulsa's most impressive meal with a view. Good luck getting reservations on a weekend for dinner! Great place to watch the sunset, eat sushi, and impress your sweetheart!2. Villa Ravenna: mentioned in ethnic foods. It's dimly lit, Andre Bocelli is always playing, the service is exceptional!1. Blue Stone: We first tried this place a few months ago and were blown away! I feel like it's a hidden gem that south Tulsans are hiding away. Dimly lit, live music, and dancing on Saturday nights. Some of the best service I've ever had.Delicious steaks, fresh Norwegian salmon, sea scallops, etc. Their fresh garlic mashed potatoes are to die for!EPISODE LINKSwww.instagram.com/tulsaplaces/ThisIsTulsaPodcast.comMERCHwww.thisistulsapodcast.com/store/LEAVE A REVIEWwww.thisistulsapodcast.com/reviews/new/SUBSCRIBE TO THE PODCAST NEWSLETTERhttps://bit.ly/3BLRCuG#thisistulsa #tulsa #tulsaok #tulsapodcast #tulsabusiness #keepitlocal #travelok #tulsatalks #918 #keeptulsacreative #tulsalove #podcastSupport the show (https://www.buymeacoffee.com/thisistulsa)
The so called Elites want us to play Squid Games and to watch Squid Games. James Corbett says its on and Bill Maher agrees? Canadian Aviation professionals continue to stand for freedom and there is …
The so called Elites want us to play Squid Games and to watch Squid Games. James Corbett says its on and Bill Maher agrees? Canadian Aviation professionals continue to stand for freedom and there is …
Season 2 of Breathe, The Stress Less Podcast is here! Listen here: https://www.lifeaudio.com/breathe-the-stress-less-podcast/ Subscribe to our sister podcasts: Your Daily Prayer: https://www.lifeaudio.com/your-daily-prayer/ Crosswalk the Devotional: https://www.lifeaudio.com/crosswalk-devotional/
Season 2 of Breathe, The Stress Less Podcast is here! Listen here: https://www.lifeaudio.com/breathe-the-stress-less-podcast/ Subscribe to our sister podcasts: Your Daily Prayer: https://www.lifeaudio.com/your-daily-prayer/ Crosswalk the Devotional: https://www.lifeaudio.com/crosswalk-devotional/
ALAN WATERS, an award winning director/designer/producer with work all over the stage, on film, and in music, will join us to discuss his amazing work and career, his podcasting services, and his future plans. FROM HIS BIO: "Alan is an award winning director/designer/producer from Statesboro, GA; now based in South Western Virginia. He went to school at Ogeechee Technical College for Hospitality and Tourism Management, and then Georgia Southern University for Theatre and Performance. Alan began his professional career at the Averitt Center for the Arts, and has worked regionally with the Weston Playhouse Theatre Company. His Off Broadway credits include work with Abingdon Theatre Company, Bard City, Barrow Street Theater, Classic Stage Company, Fiasco Theater, Keen Company, New World Stages, New York Theatre Barn, Out of the Box Theatrics, Red Bull Theater, Sheen Center, SITI Company, The Cell Theatre, Transport Group, Trusty Sidekick Theatre Company, and The Duke on 42nd. Alan is the Managing Artistic Director of DimlyWit Productions, a multimedia production company founded by independent producers for independent producers, for which he produces and designs podcasts, web series, and other virtual productions." www.dimlywit.com/walanwaters
ALAN WATERS, an award winning director/designer/producer with work all over the stage, on film, and in music, will join us to discuss his amazing work and career, his podcasting services, and his future plans. FROM HIS BIO: "Alan is an award winning director/designer/producer from Statesboro, GA; now based in South Western Virginia. He went to school at Ogeechee Technical College for Hospitality and Tourism Management, and then Georgia Southern University for Theatre and Performance. Alan began his professional career at the Averitt Center for the Arts, and has worked regionally with the Weston Playhouse Theatre Company. His Off Broadway credits include work with Abingdon Theatre Company, Bard City, Barrow Street Theater, Classic Stage Company, Fiasco Theater, Keen Company, New World Stages, New York Theatre Barn, Out of the Box Theatrics, Red Bull Theater, Sheen Center, SITI Company, The Cell Theatre, Transport Group, Trusty Sidekick Theatre Company, and The Duke on 42nd. Alan is the Managing Artistic Director of DimlyWit Productions, a multimedia production company founded by independent producers for independent producers, for which he produces and designs podcasts, web series, and other virtual productions." www.dimlywit.com/walanwaters
2 Timothy 1:1-7
2 Timothy 1:1-7
It's not easy to see things as they truly are. The Apostle Paul says that there is a day coming when we'll see Jesus face to face and will "know fully" even as we are "fully known." In the meantime, Paul says we "see in a mirror dimly." I wonder... if we did see things as they truly are, we might find it a bit unsettling! It sure was for the cast of characters in this week's lectionary readings...Job, the Corinthians, the disciples. Maybe knowing and being known is a bit more complicated than we think. Thankfully, we're not left alone. Not by a longshot. Which is why I'll be glad we're together this Sunday.
In lieu of Scholastic Assessment Testing, Chicago’s Capone High School performs a different brand of student examination: IQ Tests. Kenan & Kel both receive very surprising results that alter the frequency of their anecdotes and wardrobe respectively. Meanwhile, Kenan’s clever caricature of Capone’s chief chairwoman continues to chase him. Find out who’s a dimwit and who’s a Dimly. Email us at: kenankelpodcast@gmail.com Twitter/Instagram/TikTok: @kenankelpodcast --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/kenankelpodcast/message
Self-awareness. Self-improvement. Personal growth. Personal development. Personal progress. Personal productivity. What happens when the paradigms and strategies of self-improvement that have saturated our culture find their way into the church? On this episode, Rev. Butler and I discuss the goal and shape of spiritual growth in an age of self-reflection.
爱我爱你，不光因为你的样子，还因为，和你在一起时，我的样子。我爱你，因为你能唤出我最真的部分，我爱你，因为你穿越我心灵的旷野，如同阳光穿透水晶般容易，我的傻气，我的弱点，在你的目光里几乎不存在。而我心里最美丽的地方，却被你的光芒照得通亮，别人都不曾费心走那么远，别人都觉得寻找太麻烦，所以没人发现过我的美丽，所以没人到过这里。我爱你，因为你将我的生活化腐朽为神奇因为有你，我的生命不再是平凡的旅店而成为了恢弘的庙宇我日复一日的工作里，不再充满抱怨而是美妙的旋律我爱你，因为你比信念更能使我的生活变得无比美好因为你比命运更能使我的生活变得充满欢乐而你做出这一切的一起不费一丝力气，一句言辞，一个暗示你做出这一切的一切，只是因为你就是你毕竟，这也许就是朋友的含义Love by Roy Croft I love you, Not only for what you are, But for what I am When I am with you. I love you, Not only for what You have made of yourself, But for what You are making of me. I love you For the part of me That you bring out; I love you For putting your hand Into my heaped-up heart And passing over All the foolish, weak things That you can’t help Dimly seeing there, And for drawing out Into the light All the beautiful belongings That no one else had looked Quite far enough to find. I love you because you Are helping me to make Of the lumber of my life Not a tavern But a temple; Out of the works Of my every day Not a reproach But a song. I love you Because you have done More than any creed Could have done To make me good And more than any fate Could have done To make me happy. You have done it Without a touch, Without a word, Without a sign. You have done it By being yourself. Perhaps that is what Being a friend means, After all.
Sermon - December, 27, 2020
12/12/2020 | This day's featured sermon on SermonAudio: Title: We See Dimly Subtitle: Verse By Verse Bible Teaching Speaker: Bruce David Bell Broadcaster: Berean Bible Fellowship Event: Sunday Service Date: 11/8/2020 Bible: 1 Corinthians 13:1-13 Length: 23 min.
Interview with Angel Strong, real name, about how the present time mirrors times of old. Yet this time in history is somewhat different. Be ready! --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/rara-avis/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/rara-avis/support
What gets stuck on the windshield of your spiritual vision? Lots of things. Listen as host Dr. Steve Greene shares how three things—comparison, distractions and jealousy—cloud your spiritual vision. Turn on the wipers to see through to the Holy Spirit. This episode is from the "Greenelines" column in the September 2020 issue of "Charisma" magazine.
Jun 7th, 2020 - Chris Trailer
Episode 34 Blockzeit 632908 - von und mit Markus und Gigi Intro: “Opt out and exit the economy as a whole by buying bitcoin.” Eigene Fullnode laufen lassen, “Be your own bank”! Tweets der Woche PayTV vs FreeTV und Dimly lit exit sign. BTCPay Server Grant (OKCoin) Mullvad.net VPN via Lightning bezahlen Lightning Payments “in the wild” Potzblitz mit Konstantin Nick Kongressabgeordnete aus Wyoming HODLed seit 2013 Kingdom Trust Kunden können jetzt in Bitcoin investieren ($13 Mrd.) Grayscale kauft mehr bitcoins als neu gemined werden 8GB Raspi4 announced Europol Report über Wasabi Wallet Bitcoin Optech Issue 100 Weiterer OXT Research Report: “Toxic Recall Attack” Mempool Analyse von Sergej Kotliar Bitcoin Wallet Tracker von Nadav Ivgi (@shesek) 10 Lightning-Kanäle mit einer Transaktion für 10cents geöffnet LND 0.10.1-beta.rc3 Bitcoin Core 0.20.0 released (changelog, summary) Outro: Upgrade your Zoom Account
DespairBy H. P. LovecraftO’er the midnight moorlands crying,Thro’ the cypress forests sighing,In the night-wind madly flying,Hellish forms with streaming hair;In the barren branches creaking,By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking,Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking;Damn’d daemons of despair.Once, I think I half remember,Ere the grey skies of NovemberQuench’d my youth’s aspiring ember,Liv’d there such a thing as bliss;Skies that now are dark were beaming,Gold and azure, splendid seemingTill I learn’d it all was dreaming—Deadly drowsiness of Dis.But the stream of Time, swift flowing,Brings the torment of half-knowing—Dimly rushing, blindly goingPast the never-trodden lea;And the voyager, repining,Sees the wicked death-fires shining,Hears the wicked petrel’s whiningAs he helpless drifts to sea.Evil wings in ether beating;Vultures at the spirit eating;Things unseen forever fleetingBlack against the leering sky.Ghastly shades of bygone gladness,Clawing fiends of future sadness,Mingle in a cloud of madnessEver on the soul to lie.Thus the living, lone and sobbing,In the throes of anguish throbbing,With the loathsome Furies robbingNight and noon of peace and rest.But beyond the groans and gratingOf abhorrent Life, is waitingSweet Oblivion, culminatingAll the years of fruitless quest.Find us online at thatsnotcanon.com/epigraphySubscribe to us on ITUNES, STITCHER, SPOTIFY, RADIOPUBLIC or your podcatcher of choice.Find us on FACEBOOK, TWITTER or INSTAGRAM. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.
Rev. Ian Cummins
We are addicted to knowing good and evil, to dividing the world into us versus them, and yet our own judgments are so compromised by our lack of true understanding. How then shall we live?Support the show (http://www.patreon.com/extracrispypodcast)
Fr. Emmanuel Kahn gives the sermon for the Sunday of All Saints, 2019.
Pastor Ron Coleman's message from May 8th, 2019.
All sermons and communion meditations
What are people looking for when looking for God? What do people see when they think of the church and religion? Pastor Dallas starts a new series, "Looking for God." (Week 1)
Our hosts (with guest Dimly pinch-hitting for Maq) recap The Huntsman: Winter's War and prove that you've got to let Chris Hemsworth be charming, goddamnit. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.
Welcome to my new podcast. I am here to tell my story and share truths that I have learned the hard way. This is just an introduction episode. We will be discussing many topics based on the fact that we believe things to be true that are complete lies.
Justo González, celebrated church historian and author, reflects on Paul’s changing visions on his second missionary journey and encourages new and graduating students alike that though the vision may not be clear, “God will surprise us in the future.” This audio is a recording from Fuller’s All-Seminary chapel on October 15, 2014 during the 40th Anniversary celebration of Centro Latino. Learn more here: https://www.fuller.edu/offices/centro-latino/ For more resources for a deeply formed spiritual life, visit Fuller.edu/Studio
Panel - Through A Glass Dimly by Anselm Society
Weekly messages from Pastor Michael Masek of Covenant Church in Ferris, Texas.
Do-Overs by Jennifer Lee Rossman I have ridden dinosaurs. Big, bitey ones. I've traveled on the Hindenburg, fought alongside Joan of Arc, punched Jack the Ripper right in the face. The point I'm trying to make is being a time traveler puts you in some scary situations, but this is easily the most terrifying. Asking out a pretty girl. (Insert shriek of terror here.) I've been putting it off, shoving it to that dusty place in the back of my mind where I keep things I'm afraid of—like the fact that house centipedes exist—but it has to be now, before she goes back home. I take a deep breath, my heart beating like a drum roll, and step into the lab. And there's Ada, Countess of Lovelace, daughter of Lord Byron, world's first computer programmer, and unquestionably 1840's sexiest woman alive. [Full transcript after the cut.] Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip for March 9, 2018. This is your host Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing these stories with you. First things first: if you're listening to this episode when it comes out, you have until March 12, 2018 to get a great deal on the ebook of GlitterShip Year One. This anthology collects every GlitterShip story that came out between our launch and the end of 2016 and is on sale for just $2.99. You can pick it up direct from the GlitterShip website at glittership.com/buy, on Kindle, Nook, or Kobo. Today I have three short reprints for you. The first is Corvus the Mighty by Simon Kewin Simon Kewin was born and raised on the misty Isle of Man in the middle of the Irish Sea, but he now lives in the English countryside with his wife and their daughters. He is the author of over a hundred published short stories and his works have appeared in Analog, Nature, Daily Science Fiction, Abyss & Apex and many more. His cyberpunk novel The Genehunter and his Cloven Land fantasy trilogy were recently published and his clockpunky novel Engn is to be published by Curiosity Quills Press in 2018. Find him at simonkewin.co.uk. Corvus the Mighty by Simon Kewin Gedric found the ramshackle hut half way up the hillside. He tethered his horse, the best they’d been able to spare, to one of the low stone walls marking the garden out from the sweep of sloping land. He stood and waited to be spoken to. The man he’d come to find, stripped to the waist, powerful but grey-haired now, dug a trench in the heavy soil with rhythmic swings of his shoulders. The man didn’t speak, didn’t appear to have even noticed his visitor. Gedric had grown up with tales of him. They all had: the exploits of Corvus, Corvus and his trusty Shieldsman Way, were the stuff of children’s bedtime stories and mead-hall roister. Corvus, who had saved the seven clans again and again, defeated marauding nightmares then drunk for a week to celebrate. And now here he was, tilling the reluctant peat of this desolate hillside, this man who could have lived out his days in golden palaces had he chosen to. While he waited, Gedric turned away to look out over the land. Now that he saw Corvus in the flesh, his doubts returned. Could one old man really save them? He regretted this fool’s errand more and more. He should be down there, fighting the invaders. At least he’d be doing something. Dimly, in the far distance, he could make out a line of smoke cutting into the sky. Some homestead or town burning. Impossible to say where from up there. But it might be Ravn. Ravn, with its walls of spiked pine trunks and its stone tower. Ravn where he’d left Eliane two days earlier, vowing he’d return with help. The invaders had been sighted even as he’d galloped away. Was she still alive? She and their child she carried within her? Were any of the people he’d grown up with still alive? He imagined her calling out his name in desperation as she died, surrounded by shrieking bone-men. Corvus speared his shovel into the earth as if it were a beast he had slain. He regarded Gedric, an irritated look on his lined face. His chest heaved from his exertions. “I come in search of Corvus the War Chief, Lord of the Seven Clans,” said Gedric. “Have you now? Well, you’ve come a long way for nothing, boy.” Gedric had been warned Corvus had turned his back on everything he’d been. Wanted only peace and solitude now. This reaction was only what he’d expected. “My lord, the clans are in great need,” said Gedric, giving him the speech he’d practiced in his head as he rode up the hill. “The bone-men have come out of the west, hundreds of their white ships making landfall on the coast to pillage and destroy. We fight them, but they keep coming, more and more every day.” “Sorry to hear it. At least they shouldn’t bother me all the way up here.” “But the clans, my lord. They fall, village by village, town by town. Soon there will be none of us left.” The man shook his head. “And I told you. I’m not the man you’re looking for.” “But you could be him once more, my lord. You are still Corvus. You could unite the clans, lead us against the foe.” The old man laughed. He looked up at the sky in the manner of farmers and homesteaders everywhere, assessing the chances of rain. “Young fool, I mean I’m really not him. Corvus died six winters ago.” Gedric smiled. He’d been told to expect this, too. “You mean, he died and this humble crofter I see before me was born at the same moment. I understand your desire for solitude, Corvus, but times are desperate.” “I mean he died, boy. Corvus the Mighty, Lord of the Seven Clans and so on and so on. He gave up his ghost. In his sleep. He was just a ragbag of wounds by the end, anyway. Couldn’t feed or clean himself. Don’t mention that in the sagas, do they?” “I don’t believe you.” “I’ll show you his mighty bones if you like, buried on the hilltop.” The man nodded up the slope. Gedric saw the line of a well-worn path leading up there. “But I don’t understand. Everyone I spoke to said Corvus lived here. And here you are. Yet you claim you’re not him.” “I am not Corvus.” “Then who are you?” “Are you really the brightest one they could find? My name is Way, boy. Obviously.” “No, but, I’m sorry, Way was a small man. Clever and agile as a cat. It’s in all the sagas.” “Let me tell you something about storytellers,” said the old man. He looked around in an exaggerated way, as if there were anyone within thirty leagues who could overhear. “The thing is this. They make things up. That’s what they do, what they’re for. I can assure you I am Way. I should know. I’ve been me all my life. And for the record, I was a hand taller than Corvus. Better swordsman too, truth be told.” Gedric had never even wondered what had happened to Way. He was just the constant companion in the tales: the one who broke into the dungeons to rescue Corvus the night before he was to be executed, or who cut his ropes when the Pirate Kings thought they had him bound and trapped belowdecks. “But I don’t understand, Corvus came here for peace and solitude. Everyone knows that. And yet here you are. What, you came up here to rescue him from these ferocious sheep?” The old man shook his head. “I see the storytellers got that wrong, too. We came here for peace and solitude. They have me as, what, Corvus’s faithful companion? His servant?” “His Shieldsman.” The man laughed. “Do you really think we could have stood each other all that time if we’d been just comrades? Or master and servant? The world was ours to roam together. I was his lover, not some Shieldsman. Ah, he was a beautiful man in his youth, let me tell you. People would do anything for that smile of his. I know I did.” A weight of dread filled Gedric at these words. Corvus had been their last hope. A remote hope, to be sure. He thought of Eliane and the bright, fearless look on her face. The swell of her belly. Her gentle touch. “Then I am sorry,” said Gedric. “You have lost a lot more than just a hero.” Way shrugged. “We had our time together, down there in the world and up here in the quiet afterwards. It barely matters now. He’s gone. Isn’t a day goes by I don’t miss him, but pining won’t bring him back, will it? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get these stonefruits planted before the rains come. Make yourself useful and I’ll let you rest here the night. You can leave in the morning.” Unable to think of anything else to say to the old man, Gedric climbed over the wall to help. That night, Gedric lay on a mattress of springy heather beneath the furs Way had provided. The old man was outside somewhere, tending to his tatty, distrustful sheep. Gedric sighed. He had failed in his quest to find Corvus, failed to bring him triumphantly back to the clans. They would all die now, sooner or later. He leafed through the sheaf of dispatches he’d brought with him: descriptions of the skirmishes fought against the bone-men, plans for future battles. He sought good news, some flaw they’d missed, some new strategy they could adopt. He found nothing. The bone-men came in their hundreds and left behind a trail of the dead and dying. Gedric read for an hour or more by the flickering light of Way’s fire until his eyes began to prickle. Exhausted by his journey, by his labor in the field, he lay back and fell asleep. He woke to rain drumming on the wooden roof of the hovel. He thought, still half-asleep, the bone-men had come for him, had set fire to their house. Imagined Eliane there beside him, reaching for her axe to fight off the invaders. But when he opened his eyes, he was alone. It was early morning, the inky darkness outside just beginning to shade to purple. Embers of the fire glowed orange in the old man’s hearth. It took Gedric a moment to realise the despatches were gone, plucked from his hand as he slept. How could he have been so foolish? The details they contained would be invaluable to their foe. He had vowed never to let them out of his sight, had been allowed to travel with them only in the hope they might goad Corvus into action. Now Way had them. If he really was Way. Perhaps he was someone in league with the bone-men, set up there as a trap. Alarm hammered through Gedric at what he had done. He rose, quickly, thinking to chase after the man, catch up with him. He would be hours away by now. Gedric stood there in the early morning chill, naked, trying to decide what he should do. “You’re in a sudden hurry, boy.” The man sat unseen in a shadowy corner of the room. Gedric heard the rustling of paper. “Return the despatches to me,” said Gedric. The old man ignored him. “Tell me, who commands the warbands now?” “Each clan chief leads their own.” “Well, they’re all fools. See here, they turn and face the bone-men with the river to their backs. And here, again, in the High Passes, where scree-falls can easily be set off to crush a pursuing enemy, nothing is done. The warbands flap around like gaggles of geese.” “We do what we can. There are too many of the enemy.” The man stood and stepped out of the shadows into the orange glow from the fire. He wore full armor. Gedric recognized it immediately. “So … you are Corvus after all.” The man looked at him for a moment, not speaking. He shook his head. “No. I am Way. Didn’t I tell you? But I kept his armor, boy. That’s all I have left of him. I get it all out and buckle it on sometimes. Had to loosen the straps a little. Ridiculous, I know, but it makes me feel he’s still here, makes me feel close to him again.” “You miss him.” Way shrugged. “Also I look rather good in it. Don’t you think?” “You look like Corvus.” “That’s what you see?” “I … I thought you were him, stepping out from the sagas. That armor with those crows emblazoning it.” “Good.” “What do you mean?” “If you saw that, others will see it too,” said Way. “They’ll see what they need to see. All those stories about us. A lot of it was just people believing in us, believing in him: the black-haired hero who always won, despite the ridiculous odds.” “You’ve decided to help us now?” “I read your despatches,” said Way. “The bone-men. I thought you were just some lad who’d seen one battle and run for the hills. But you’re right. The clans need Corvus once more.” “You mean, you’re going to pretend to be him?” “Riding out of the old tales, just when the clans need him most. Don’t you see, boy? The story is irresistible. The bone-men won’t have a chance. And … I would see Corvus at the head of the warbands once more. In a manner of speaking.” “Can this work?” “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t. They’ll want to believe I’m Corvus. Now get dressed, boy.” Way glanced down and back up, an amused grin flashing across his face. “I can see from here how cold you are.” Gedric began to struggle into his clothes. Way pulled Corvus’s helmet over his head and the illusion was complete. “Come,” said Way, his voice muffled by the helmet. Changed. “Let us ride. We can’t just sit around on this hillside when the clans need us.” Together they stepped out into the morning light. The rain had passed over now and shafts of sunlight lit the world. The whole land lay stretched out before them, like a map waiting to be drawn on. Way opened the little wooden gate that kept his sheep penned up, giving the creatures their freedom. “Will we have a chance?” Gedric asked. “Is there really any hope?” The fate of all the clans depended on this old man, but he could think only of Eliane. Eliane and their child. Way laughed. “The situation is hopeless, the odds ridiculous. How can we fail? We will ride to Ravn and rally their defences. And then we will ride to every other town. The story of the return of Corvus will spread like a fire across the land and we will be unstoppable.” Then Way—Corvus—nodded, climbed onto his horse and set off down the hill to do battle. END Next we have "Pastel Witch" by Jacob Budenz. Jacob Budenz is a writer and multi-disciplinary performer whose work has been published by Assaracus, Hinchas de Poesia, Polychrome Ink, The Avenue, and more. Currently, Jacob resides in New Orleans in pursuit of an MFA in Creative Writing. Pastel Witch by Jacob Budenz Where wealth is measured by the pinkness of the sky there is a man standing at the window wearing a yellow sundress as dusk descends. His lips are lavender. His toenails match. His fingernails match. He does not wear shoes. Where teeth hang from the doorway by silver thread and tinkle in the breeze the man crushes daisies with a mortar and pestle. The teeth are his own and he has grown them back and torn them out, grown them back and torn them out, grown them back, year after year after year after year. From his kitchen he can see the lake ripple, the mountains lean in. He is pregnant with his third child. The father is the wind. Where the moss is a pillow and the tree is a lamp, the man will give birth to his daughter and hand the baby to the queen of the crickets. The child will return once she has learned to fly and to sing. She will be thirteen years old, then. In the mean time the man will weep once a week for the first two years, once a month for the next four, twice a year for the next three, only once the next year, never again until she returns. When his daughter returns he will tell her he never wanted any sons. Both his sons died before learning to fly, he will tell her. This is a lie. He had one daughter and one son before her. They are still alive, and have turned into a narwhal and a beetle, respectively. Where the water is warm he will never swim. He does not know how to swim. Yet here he lives in a house by the lake, here he lives in a house by the lake. The sun has gone down, and the banshees are smiling, and he swears he will never drink a drop of liquor again, after tomorrow morning. END Finally, we have "Do-Overs" by Jennifer Lee Rossman Jennifer Lee Rossman is a science fiction geek from Oneonta, New York, who enjoys cross stitching, watching Doctor Who, and threatening to run over people with her wheelchair. Her debut novel, Jack Jetstark's Intergalactic Freakshow, will be published by World Weaver Press in 2019. She blogs at jenniferleerossman.blogspot.com and tweets @JenLRossman. Do-Overs by Jennifer Lee Rossman I have ridden dinosaurs. Big, bitey ones. I've traveled on the Hindenburg, fought alongside Joan of Arc, punched Jack the Ripper right in the face. The point I'm trying to make is being a time traveler puts you in some scary situations, but this is easily the most terrifying. Asking out a pretty girl. (Insert shriek of terror here.) I've been putting it off, shoving it to that dusty place in the back of my mind where I keep things I'm afraid of—like the fact that house centipedes exist—but it has to be now, before she goes back home. I take a deep breath, my heart beating like a drum roll, and step into the lab. And there's Ada, Countess of Lovelace, daughter of Lord Byron, world's first computer programmer, and unquestionably 1840's sexiest woman alive. She's bent over a laptop, her dark hair falling over her little serious face, dressed in jeans and a V-neck that are a far cry from the silks and gowns a countess would wear in her era. She makes my skin feel warm just looking at her. "So," she says as I approach. "I've run a final check on the new operating system and it all looks good. I've worked out the kinks that caused that paradox, but there are a few new guidelines I want to run by you—" I love the way she says paradox in her accent, with a long O sound that makes her lips get all round and pouty. Like when she says my name. "Roz?" I blink and look up from her lips. "Roz, did you hear a word I said?" My nod is a vigorous, enthusiastic lie. "Then if you want to test your machine—" "You're gorgeous." Her entire face stops like someone paused her video in mid-word and I just want to melt into a puddle of embarrassment. "I'm... gorgeous," she repeats, her voice devoid of any inflection that would help me know how to fix this. Should I take it back? That seems offensive. Maybe I should tell her I don't mean it in a gay way? But I do. I mean it in the gayest way possible. I mean it as the start of a relationship that will lead to us getting married in matching princess dresses and having babies and operating our own time travel business and— Time travel. Duh. "You know what?" I say, holding my hands up. "Let me try this again." I leave her to her bewilderment and step outside. I set my wristwatch time machine back two minutes, and a blue glow envelops me. When it subsides, I go back in to find her bent over the laptop again. She looks up when she sees me. "So..." "Do you like girls?" I interrupt, because I am just the smoothest. When she doesn't answer right away, I add, "I do. And boys. And, in one very confusing instance, a cartoon fox. But the girl part is the most relevant now because I like you." Facepalm. Out the door I go without another word, and back in time with a blue glow. We never used to have a blue glow; must be one of her improvements to the system. This time, I go in with a plan, and that plan is poetry. What girl can resist wordplay! And I have the perfect poem in mind. Before she can say anything, I launch into a passionate recitation. "Maid of Athens, 'ere we part. Give, oh, give me back my heart!" Her initial amusement slips from her face, leaving her looking confused and... is that a teensy bit of disgust? "Or since that has left my breast," I continue, "take it now and leave the rest. Hear my vow—" Oh, no. I just remembered who wrote the poem. Ada's perfect eyebrows knit together. "Roz, are you trying to woo me with a poem written by my father?" "Yes. Luckily, I'm about to change history so you won't remember any of this when I get back," I say, and dash out the door. I do the Time Warp again. Okay. Focus. I breathe slow, deep breaths and think of exactly what I want to say. I got Napoleon and Josephine together when a time rift erased the day they met. If I can do that, I can totally do this. ...is what I tell myself so I don't throw up. "Hello, Miss Lovelace," I say this time, trying to stay calm despite a raging blush that has to be visible from space. "Do you have a moment to talk about something important?" Ada is leaning over a closed laptop, a knowing smile on her strawberry cream lips (she borrowed my flavored lip gloss, so I know her kiss will be delicious). A jolt runs through me – does she want to talk about what I want to talk about? But she says, "Yes, I think we should go over some of the new features of your operating system before I leave," and I deflate just a tiny bit. Did I imagine all the glances she stole when she thought I wasn’t looking? The flirtastic banter during all the late nights we stayed up coding? All the times her hands drifted from the keys and found my hand for no reason except that we're so obviously the leads in a romantic comedy? I bite my lip and join her at the table. My confidence fizzles out like candles on a forgotten birthday cake, but I have to try. "Ada—" "One of the changes I've made," she interrupts, resting her chin in her hands, "will hopefully prevent paradoxes." Pouty lips on paradoxes. I mirror her posture and pay attention this time. She speaks slowly, like she's teasing me with information. "I've implemented a safeguard to keep time travelers from interfering with their own timelines." Wait. "If you try to go back and change your own history, the machine won't work. I've set it to flash a blue glow instead of an alarm." But that would mean... "So, for example, if you wanted to undo your embarrassing attempts at confessing your feelings, the girl would see you walk out the door, only to return a few seconds later to try again." Oh. Oh no. Frost replaces my heated blush as my blood cools to the temperature of a cherry slushie. Can you die from awkwardness? My mouth hangs open in horror, which somehow makes it all the more awkward when she leans forward to kiss me. All at once, my warmth returns, and I wish she hadn't made it impossible to go back in my own timeline. Because I want to relive this moment over and over again. END “Corvus the Mighty" was originally published in Vitality Magazine and is copyright Simon Kewin 2015. "Pastel Witch" was originally published in The Light Ekphrastic and is copyright Jacob Budenz 2015. "Do-Overs" was originally published in Spectrum Lit and is copyright Jennifer Lee Rossman 2017. This recording is a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license which means you can share it with anyone you’d like, but please don’t change or sell it. Our theme is “Aurora Borealis” by Bird Creek, available through the Google Audio Library. You can support GlitterShip by checking out our Patreon at patreon.com/keffy, subscribing to our feed, or by leaving reviews on iTunes. Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a couple of GlitterShip originals.
"WHY" We Will Judge Angels! They are INDICTING OUR GOD! Though we Se Dimly We Worship Him! Also available for Viewing on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g9t4xizDIA8 1 Corinthians 6:3K(KJV) 3 Know ye not that we shall judge angels? how much more things that pertain to this life? Grace Nuggets -Enoch Book - Fallen Angels-Could Not be Redeemed nor Forgiven -The Enemy is trying to indict God, that He is no just -The enemy is Trying to Convice the Angels that God is Not Just -The Enemy is Angrey because they Couldn't be Redeemed -The Lord is Using the Enemy to Prove Man -We Believe and Haven't seen -The Angels stood before Him and His Glory, yet they fell Grace Nuggets: -You Chose to be here for, More Glory -Nothing is a Suprise to God -The Lord will Use your Victory in Christ to Prove He is Just [Chapter 12] 1 Before these things Enoch was hidden, and no one of the children of men knew where he was 2 hidden, and where he abode, and what had become of him. And his activities had to do with the Watchers, and his days were with the holy ones. 3 And I Enoch was blessing the Lord of majesty and the King of the ages, and lo! the Watchers 4 called me -Enoch the scribe- and said to me: 'Enoch, thou scribe of righteousness, go, declare to the Watchers of the heaven who have left the high heaven, the holy eternal place, and have defiled themselves with women, and have done as the children of earth do, and have taken unto themselves 5 wives: "Ye have wrought great destruction on the earth: And ye shall have no peace nor forgiveness 6 of sin: and inasmuch as they delight themselves in their children, The murder of their beloved ones shall they see, and over the destruction of their children shall they lament, and shall make supplication unto eternity, but mercy and peace shall ye not attain."' [Chapter 13] 1 And Enoch went and said: 'Azazel, thou shalt have no peace: a severe sentence has gone forth 2 against thee to put thee in bonds: And thou shalt not have toleration nor request granted to thee, because of the unrighteousness which thou hast taught, and because of all the works of godlessness 3 and unrighteousness and sin which thou hast shown to men.' Then I went and spoke to them all 4 together, and they were all afraid, and fear and trembling seized them. And they besought me to draw up a petition for them that they might find forgiveness, and to read their petition in the presence 5 of the Lord of heaven. For from thenceforward they could not speak (with Him) nor lift up their 6 eyes to heaven for shame of their sins for which they had been condemned. Then I wrote out their petition, and the prayer in regard to their spirits and their deeds individually and in regard to their 7 requests that they should have forgiveness and length. Chapter 15] 1 And He answered and said to me, and I heard His voice: 'Fear not, Enoch, thou righteous 2 man and scribe of righteousness: approach hither and hear my voice. And go, say to the Watchers of heaven, who have sent thee to intercede for them: "You should intercede" for men, and not men 3 for you: Wherefore have ye left the high, holy, and eternal heaven, and lain with women, and defiled yourselves with the daughters of men and taken to yourselves wives, and done like the children 4 of earth, and begotten giants (as your) sons? And though ye were holy, spiritual, living the eternal life, you have defiled yourselves with the blood of women, and have begotten (children) with the blood of flesh, and, as the children of men, have lusted after flesh and blood as those also do who die 5 and perish. Therefore have I given them wives also that they might impregnate them, and beget 6 children by them, that thus nothing might be wanting to them on earth. But you were formerly 7 spiritual, living the eternal life, and immortal for all generations of the world. And therefore I have not appointed wives for you; for as for the spiritual ones of the heaven, in heaven is their dwelling. 8 And now, the giants, who are produced from the spirits and flesh, shall be called evil spirits upon 9 the earth, and on the earth shall be their dwelling. Evil spirits have proceeded from their bodies; because they are born from men and from the holy Watchers is their beginning and primal origin; 10 they shall be evil spirits on earth, and evil spirits shall they be called. [As for the spirits of heaven, in heaven shall be their dwelling, but as for the spirits of the earth which were born upon the earth, on the earth shall be their dwelling.] And the spirits of the giants afflict, oppress, destroy, attack, do battle, and work destruction on the earth, and cause trouble: they take no food, but nevertheless 12 hunger and thirst, and cause offences. And these spirits shall rise up against the children of men and against the women, because they have proceeded from them. [Chapter 16] 1 From the days of the slaughter and destruction and death of the giants, from the souls of whose flesh the spirits, having gone forth, shall destroy without incurring judgement -thus shall they destroy until the day of the consummation, the great judgement in which the age shall be 2 consummated, over the Watchers and the godless, yea, shall be wholly consummated." And now as to the watchers who have sent thee to intercede for them, who had been aforetime in heaven, (say 3 to them): "You have been in heaven, but all the mysteries had not yet been revealed to you, and you knew worthless ones, and these in the hardness of your hearts you have made known to the women, and through these mysteries women and men work much evil on earth." 4 Say to them therefore: " You have no peace. Preach Be a Voice Not an Echo www.preachbvne.webs.com www.preachbvne.blogspot.com Twitter@Preach_BA_Voice Facebook: www.facebook.com/PREACHbeaVoicenotanEcho Podacast: www.preachbeavoicenotanecho.podomatic.com Google+ URL: google.com/+PREACHbeaVoicenotanEchoMinistry Youtube Channel:www.youtube.com/c/PREACHbeaVoicenotanEchoMinistry Mailing: P.O. BOX 606 Goodlettsville, TN 37070 PayPal: Preachbvne@yahoo.com Ambassador Thomas Emmanuel Davis III Ambassador Shawntrell Davis Ambassadors of the Word of Reconciliation Followers of "The Way" Distributors of the Revelation! Distributors of the Truth! Distributors of the Release! S.H.I.F.T Suddenly Heaven Invades Forcing Transformation!! #YesLordIWill #CryLoudAndSpareNot #TheLordMyGodIsWithMe #PartakersofHisGlory #FortifiedBrazenWall #Repent #TheKingdomOfGodIsAtHand Let the Lord be Magnified! Announcing the Coming of the Glorious Kingdom of God! 2 Corinthians 5:20(KJV) 20 Now then we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God did beseech you by us: we pray you in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God.
Our hosts, with guest host Dimly, recap the second magician episode of a cartoon with no Christmas special. Our GDPR privacy policy was updated on August 8, 2022. Visit acast.com/privacy for more information.
The streets were quiet when I arrived on the south side on this sunny, Spring morning: A few not-yet-opened soul food restaurants, a few gas stations, a few posters for a upcoming rap concert hanging from a few traffic light poles.As I walked up the block towards this massive cathedral, the sound of bells rang out over the neighborhood from the tower high above the street. This building reminded me of villages in western Europe where the cathedral was the largest structure in the village, and was constructed at such an impressive scale to both inspire awe and reverence for how big God is, and to remind humans how small we are in comparison.A large stone staircase at the side entrance lead me into the main hall - an open space with tall, vaulted arches that held up the ceiling about 75-100 feet above my head. Dimly-lit chandeliers hung from the arches. Sunlight shining through the stained glass windows balanced the dark wooden paneling along the base of the walls.A rectangular table on the center stage is covered in Kente cloth, with three lit candles resting on top. Behind the stage hung a large painting of a Black man with a short afro, extended arms, and opened hands.The journey continues in the Auburn-Gresham neighborhood on the south side, at the corner of 78th Place and Racine.Intro Theme Music: Victory Lap by QSTN ft. Mecca:83Background Music: www.bensound.com/Register to receive an advance copy of the companion book at https://godinchicago.com/Join the conversation! Follow us on Twitter: https://bit.ly/2Y94abI and on Instagram: https://bit.ly/2z6q5W4
Friend of the show Dimly pinch-hits for Maq as our hosts recap "Homeland, Heartland." Our GDPR privacy policy was updated on August 8, 2022. Visit acast.com/privacy for more information.
A sermon series on Paul's first letter to the Corinthians – a 2,000 year-old book written for people just like us.
A sermon series on Paul's first letter to the Corinthians - a 2,000 year-old book written for people just like us.
A sermon series on Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians – a 2,000 year-old book written for people just like us.
A sermon series on Paul's first letter to the Corinthians – a 2,000 year-old book written for people just like us.
A sermon series on Paul's first letter to the Corinthians – a 2,000 year-old book written for people just like us.
How can we see the world through a lens less dim?
Our hosts (with pinch-hitter Dimly of Witch Planet Games) discuss "Renaissance Woman," an episode with a very loose understanding of British law. Our GDPR privacy policy was updated on August 8, 2022. Visit acast.com/privacy for more information.
In the 4th episode of YFB, we spice things up a little bit! Brandon is joined by Zach from Citizens & Saints to talk, song-by-song, about their new album 'A Mirror Dimly'! To get the new album, and see tour dates, go to http://www.citizensandsaints.com Don't forget to subscribe, review, and tell a friend!
One day in the no-touch torture of detainee 063.
Cats’ eyes in the dark are creepy. Dimly glowing little orbs of ancient feline wisdom, humanly incomprehensible contemplation, and murder. Lots of cold-blooded murder. Absolutely unremarkable until they are pointed directly at you, and then it’s as if an ocular toggle has been thrown from to . I always feel creeping, gradually intensifying discomfort when confronted with that not-quite-blank stare shining from an indistinguishable distance, clearly intent on me. Various sources on the internet place the domestication of cats in a huge range, 5,000 to 12,000+ years ago. In either case, they’ve been living with us, in our homes, for a long time and roaming the planet even longer…and they are generally thought to be solitary in the wild. Though I’m not entirely convinced that we know shit about shit. Dogs, derivative of wolves, have been with us (arguably) longer than cats, though throughout most of our tangled history as de facto tools and vaudevillian entertainment. That is, we use them to hunt, search, pull, protect, sit, shake hands, roll over, and walk on their hind legs as we play the Macarena. Cats, though. Cats, I believe, have given zero fucks about such tomfoolery forever. (I think this is where we humans, with our limited capacity for creativity, dispassionate observation, and accuracy […just turn on your television…], ended up concluding that cats are “solitary in the wild” instead of “as collectively sick of your shit in the wild as they individually will be in your home.” I tend to think that cats communicate and congregate on a higher level and in a way that is not obvious to our human brains.) I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t domesticate cats as much as cats decided, “You know what, fuck this shit. It’s dangerous out here, and I’m sick of eating disease-ridden rodents and these goddamn flying rats with their feathers and beaks and bones. Too much planning, training, and work for way too little shitty-tasting meat. You know what, I’m going to live with those fat, furless, declawed, blunt-toothed walking monkeys.” And so it was. And so it is. And now, I must go feed Emmy, the tortoise-shell tabby with PTSD, an inflammatory gut disorder, and feline Autism; and Lizzy, the skittish, nocturnal tuxedo cat with an intellectual disability. Because they demand it. And here, for you, the oddly compelling, if not mesmerizing sounds of Emmy eating, then licking the plate clean, then drinking. In stereo. Enjoy. (Lizzy: “Huh?”) (Emmy: “I will kill you.”)
Tony Moore is a senior reporter at Brisbane Times. He was one of the original team recruited to work at Fairfax Media's new online news outlet when it was launched in 2007, and today he remains one of only a couple of reporters who has worked at Brisbane Times since its inception. Before that role, though, Tony has enjoyed a long career as a journalist in Queensland. I first met him about a year ago, when I sent an email to ask whether he'd be open to sharing one of his sources with me for a story I was working on. This type of request can go either way, as some journalists are extremely protective of their sources and wary of sharing with their workmates, let alone a freelancer like myself, but the fact that Tony welcomed me with open arms says a lot about his character. We met at his home in the inner-city suburb of West End on a Friday afternoon in March, when he and his Brisbane Times colleagues happened to be on strike for the day, in solidarity with their colleagues in Sydney and Melbourne, after Fairfax Media announced plans to cut 120 full-time equivalent jobs from newsrooms at The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age. We began by speaking about what these job losses will mean for consumers of Australian journalism, before moving on to discuss Tony's early interest in environmental sciences, and the link he has noticed between science and journalism; his early years working at The Queensland Times in Ipswich, where he saw the rise of an influential figure in Australian politics from up close; the character traits he has observed about the young reporters who excel in this business; why he lost the ability to speak for several months, and how he overcame this affliction; and how a long-running series of stories led to the funding of a major Queensland infrastructure project. Tony came to Fairfax Media and Brisbane Times after working at The Queensland Times in Ipswich where he worked as a reporter, chief of staff and deputy editor over 14 years. At Ipswich he started affairs with the Ipswich Motorway, southeast Queensland's population growth and how Brisbane and Ipswich needed to play nicely together. They are affairs which continue to this day, though he is yet to tell his wife and two daughters, who are more interested in netball, basketball, circus and the rebuilding of the Brisbane Lions. Tony is a cricket tragic who realised early in his career that being straight-driven for six was less than encouraging for a Brisbane swing bowler. It took a ceremonial hip and shoulder bump to end his career as a young ruck-rover spreadeagled along the boundary fence at Wests at Chelmer. He remembers The Stranglers and Xero at Festival Hall, The Birthday Party at Souths Leagues Club and the Royal Exchange Hotel when it was a Triple Zed venue. Dimly. Tony was born and still lives in Brisbane, went to Queensland University of Technology and Griffith University. Show notes and links to what was discussed in this episode: http://penmanshippodcast.com/episode-21-tony-moore/ Tony Moore on Twitter: @eastTMoore Penmanship on Twitter: @PenmanshipAU penmanshippodcast.com
I Corinthians 13:8-12
Morningside Presbyterian Church - Atlanta, GA - http://www.morningsidepc.org
A sermon by Rev. Dr. Baron Mullis - Scripture: Isaiah 42: 1-9; Acts 10: 34-43
19:09 no Made Join us each week for traditional worship and an in
"Dimly sensed by the evolving human consciousness hovers another emerging truth of a larger nature—larger [Page 406] because related to the Whole and not just to individual man and his personal salvation. It is an extension of the individual approach to truth. Let us call it the truth of the Great Cyclic Approaches of the divine to the human of which all world Teachers and Saviours were the symbol and the guarantee. At certain great moments, down the ages, God drew nearer to His people and humanity (blindly and unconscious of their objective) at the same time made great efforts to draw near to God. On the part of God, this was intentional, conscious and deliberate; on the part of man, it was largely unconscious, forced upon him by the tragedy of circumstance, by desperate need and by the driving urge of the collective soul." THE EXTERNALISATION OF THE HIERARCHY by Alice Bailey.
"Dimly sensed by the evolving human consciousness hovers another emerging truth of a larger nature—larger [Page 406] because related to the Whole and not just to individual man and his personal salvation. It is an extension of the individual approach to truth. Let us call it the truth of the Great Cyclic Approaches of the divine to the human of which all world Teachers and Saviours were the symbol and the guarantee. At certain great moments, down the ages, God drew nearer to His people and humanity (blindly and unconscious of their objective) at the same time made great efforts to draw near to God. On the part of God, this was intentional, conscious and deliberate; on the part of man, it was largely unconscious, forced upon him by the tragedy of circumstance, by desperate need and by the driving urge of the collective soul." THE EXTERNALISATION OF THE HIERARCHY by Alice Bailey
What are the ideas which guide th eliving of your life? What are the blessings and assurances that echo in the liminal spaces between slumber and awakening?
Fr. George explains the real meaning of the Nativity for us.
The promise of the Old Covenant was understood only vaguely. But with the coming of the Lord, God's purpose was made clear. Therefore, joyously proclaim His birth.
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