Podcasts about instar

Instar & Silent Ech0 Planet Funk Ep 542

En una sessió maratoniana de més de 5 hores, el ple municipal del mes de març aprovà la modificació de l'ordenança de sorolls per prohibir l'ús de la pirotècnia amb mescla detonant fora de les celebracions tradicionals de Festa Major i Santa Tecla, dels dies de Sant Joan (23 i 24 de juny) i d'activitats que l'Ajuntament consideri d'especial rellevància. Per tant, a partir d'ara es prohibeix l'ús extemporani de pirotècnia amb petard -inclosos xiuladors o roncadors- sigui per celebrar un casament, una victòria esportiva o un aniversari per posar alguns dels exemples més recorrents. L'entrada El ple aprovà la modificació de l’ordenança de sorolls per prohibir l’ús de la pirotècnia fora de les festes tradicionals, la moció del sindicat de llogateres per instar a ‘La Caixa’ a resoldre els problemes dels seus pisos a Sitges, i les bases per l’adjudicació de la 3a fase dels pisos d’HPO ha aparegut primer a Radio Maricel.

Programa especial en el que Pepe Auth y Jaime Bellolio analizan la polémica de los indultos en el Gobierno de Gabriel Boric. Auth señaló que "el gobierno debe decir que se equivocó e instar al TC a que anule algunos indultos".

Artists Trish Evans and Nick Humphreys, who are collectivly known as Instar, are taking a journey to discover the ocean, shining a light on the wonder beneath the waves and to creatively explore the impact of climate change and rising sea levels for communities and local people, by creating ARKADE. ARKADE will be an art project over the winter of 2023/24 in Jaywick combining fruit machines and wildlife. Trish and Nick explain more about the project in this episode of Essex By The Sea with Owen. To see more about ARKADE, their website is www.we-are-instar.co.uk/arkade If you've got a story, Owen would like to hear from you! Email essexbytheseapodcast@gmail.com Join him on social media: Instagram, Facebook, Twitter and YouTube. Support with a small donation via ko-fi.com/essexbythesea

Amateur Waifu, Instar, Silen Ech0 Planet Funk Ep 478

Este 30 de enero hemos conocido que la justicia europea da la razón a Llarena y ha allanado el camino para la entrega de Puigdemont. En este sentido, Joan J. Queralt, catedrático de Derecho Penal de la Universidad de Barcelona, considera que "todavía queda partido jurídico" y siguiendo con la metáfora futbolística  "quedan por pasar varias eliminatorias" en este asunto. "Se va a instar a Bélgica para que se posicione de nuevo a partir de la resolución de hoy", ha sentenciado.Escuchar audio

Hvor kan man høre om alt fra svineconnoisseur, Tinkagate, Dirty Dancing, Instaråd, Berlin, one love og stop hikke-tips? Det kan man i afsnit 139 af denne sludder for en sladder butik. Vi lyttes! /Cecilie & Tanja   Mixet af Lydhjælpen aka Thorbjörn Appehl   Følg os på Instagram eller Facebook

Auf der Documenta 15 gibt es - jenseits des Skandals - auch Kubas berühmteste Gegenwartskünstlerin, Tania Bruguera zu entdecken. Ihr Kollektiv INSTAR zeigt zensierte Künstler:innen und vermischt die Grenzen zwischen Kunst und Aktivismus. // Von Peter B. Schumann/ WDR 2022/ www. radiofeature.wdr.de Von Peter B. Schumann.

Auf der Documenta 15 gibt es - jenseits des Skandals - auch Kubas berühmteste Gegenwartskünstlerin, Tania Bruguera zu entdecken. Ihr Kollektiv INSTAR zeigt zensierte Künstler:innen und vermischt die Grenzen zwischen Kunst und Aktivismus. // Von Peter B. Schumann/ WDR 2022/ www. radiofeature.wdr.de Von Peter B. Schumann.

¿Tienes unos minutos? Te contamos la actualidad de Cuba y del resto del mundo en 'Cuba a diario', el podcast noticioso de Diario De Cuba. CINCO NOTICIAS DEL DÍA: —La Habana y Caracas envían recados a Gustavo Petro nada más ganar las elecciones https://diariodecuba.com/internacional/1655752021_40364.html —INSTAR lleva a Documenta 15 una Cuba donde el arte es una herramienta de cambio https://diariodecuba.com/cultura/1655764652_40365.html —Los médicos cubanos serán destinados sin empleo fijo a las zonas más pobres y alejadas de México https://www.facebook.com/aeropuerto.cmw/posts/pfbid0zANEVQaxFAdscSn9NaSqvtfSPFRBQjGPu7T1dir21mPLwa8YpXuUChSie1Z9BD3zl —Boxeador Andy Cruz tras dejar Cuba: "A veces se deben tomar decisiones que a algunos no les gustarán" https://diariodecuba.com/deportes/1655744148_40363.html ESCÚCHANOS de lunes a viernes, a las 6:30 AM, hora de #Cuba | 12:30 PM, hora de #Madrid. SUSCRÍBETE a nuestro canal de SoundCloud: @ddc-radio-cuba-a-diario SÍGUENOS: • FB: www.facebook.com/DIARIODECUBA • TW: twitter.com/diariodecuba • IG: www.instagram.com/diariodecuba/ • Telegram: t.me/titularesDDC Sigue leyendo hoy la Cuba de mañana: • https://diariodecuba.com/

O objetivo é investigar as ações do governo federal a partir de novembro de 2021, após o fim da 1ª CPI. Para que a comissão seja instalada, ele precisa da assinatura de 27 senadores. Não tem nenhuma, segundo o documento divulgado.

On this episode of Poetry Talks I had the pleasure and honor of speaking with Angel Santos. Angel is a creative and a painter with a background in entomology (study of insects). His work in the visual arts, love of nature, study of insects and life experience were all see to his evolution as a poet. The book Instar published in 2018 as the culmination of all these things described as an evolution process similar to that of a dragonfly. Come and join in on the conversation full of visual poetry, evolution and dragonflies. Guest - Social Media@instarflights65 (Instagram)Guest - Publications Instar (a poetry collection) Don't forget to SUBSCRIBE or FOLLOW so you won't miss a thing  ✌

Luis Herrero analiza una nueva desobediencia del Gobierno catalán al Tribunal Supremo.

Meross adds more lighting items to product lineup Aqara p1 contact sensor launches Instar IP cameras gain HomeKit support Update for Linksys WiFi 6 router brings HomeKit functionality IKEA picture frame speaker revealed --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/josh-owens04/message

Buenos días desde La Habana, soy Yoani Sánchez y en la ‘Ventana 14’ del martes 30 de marzo de 2021 comentaré estos temas: - La desconexión con la realidad: una bandera de 10 metros de hormigón en un país sin cemento – El fertilizante será en dólares - Televisión Cubana sube el tono contra el 27N y el Movimiento San Isidro – Instar y Tania Bruguera premiados por Documenta Gracias por compartir este “cafecito informativo” y te espero temprano para el programa de mañana. Puedes conocer más detalles de estas noticias en el diario https://www.14ymedio.com Enlaces del programa de hoy: - El cemento reaparece en forma de bandera de hormigón frente a la Embajada de EE UU https://www.14ymedio.com/cuba/bandera-hormigon-Embajada-EEUU-Habana_0_3066293347.html - Televisión Cubana sube el tono contra el 27N y el Movimiento San Isidro https://www.14ymedio.com/cuba/Television-Cubana-sube-tono_0_3066893284.html - Arnold‐Bode‐Preis 2021 geht an INSTAR – Tania Bruguera https://www.kassel.de/buerger/rathaus_und_politik/rund-ums-rathaus/ehrungen-und-preise/preise-der-stadt/arnold-bode-preis.php

It's a short lesson, but just last night I had to go out with a seven letter word that started with "I".  Sure I had two blanks and an "s" but nevertheless I did it! Did it help to know the six letter I words or three I seven letter words?  Not in this case but it might.  Enjoy the new episode!  | BIKINI  |  | BIMINI  |  | IMIDIC  |  | IRIDIC  |  | IRITIC  |  | IRITIS  |  | BIRIANI  |  | INDICIA  |  | LIXIVIA  |  | INHIBIN  |  | INHIBIT  |  | BIKINIS  |  | SILICIC  |  | LIPIDIC  |  | IDIOTIC  |  | VIVIFIC  |  | ILLICiT  | ILLITIC | INCIVIL  |  | CRIMINI  | CREMINI | INCIPIT  |  | OIDIOID  |  | SIMIOID  |  | IRIDIUM  |  | INSIPID  |  | RILIEVI  | RELIEVO RILIEVO | ILEITIS  |  | RIPIENO  | RIPIENI | FINIKIN  |  | GINGILI  |  | IRISING  |  | RIKISHI  |  | SHIVITI  |  | MINIKIN  |  | MINISKI  |  |   |  | INADABA  |  | ICECAP  | IPECAC | ICEMAN  | ICEMEN | INCASE  | CASEIN | ISCHIA  |  | INARCH  |  | IATRIC  |  | INFULA  |  | INTIMA  |  | IMPARK  |  | IMPAWN  |  | INSPAN  |  | INSTAR  |  | IBECES  |  | INCUBI  |  | IMBODY  |  | IMBRUE  |  | IRENIC  |  | ICONES  |  | INCOGS  |  | IXODID  |  | INDENE  |  | INDIGN  | NIDING DINING | INDIUM  |  | INWIND  |  | INDRIS  |  | IODOUS  | ODIOUS | IMPHEE  | HEMPIE | INGLES  | SINGLE | ILLITE  |  | IOLITE  |  | INKLES  | LIKENS SILKEN | IXTLES  |  | IONONE  |  | ISLING  |  | ISTHMI  |  | INRUSH  |  | INIONS  |  | INKPOT  |  | IMPOST  |  | INRUNS  | INURNS | INPOUR  | 

El Patronato de Protección a la Mujer, dependiente del Ministerio de Justicia se creó mediante Decreto de 6 de noviembre de 1941 por el que se organiza el Patronato de Protección a la Mujer, publicado en el Boletín Oficial del Estado el 20 de noviembre de 1941. Inspirado en las casas de corrección anteriores a las reformas realizadas en 1931 por Victoria Kent y tomando como referencia el Patronato Real para la trata de blancas de 1902, el nuevo Patronato iniciaría una a priori, labor social de protección del menor y la mujer en un intento de reducir la lacra sobre explotación sexual, pero escondía por otro lado una serie de funciones represivas, moralizantes y adoctrinadoras más allá del simple castigo, que pueden comprobarse en el Artículo 5º del Decreto anteriormente citado: Artículo quinto.—Para obtener la finalidad expresada en el artículo anterior, el Patronato de Protección a la Mujer tendrá las facultades siguientes, delegadas del Gobierno: ·Primera. Adoptar medidas protectoras en favor de las mujeres que se desenvuelvan en medios nocivos o peligrosos y estimular el interés social en favor de las mujeres moralmente abandonadas, especialmente de las menores de edad. ·Segunda. Instar el descubrimiento de los hechos delictivos relacionados con la corrupción y tráfico de las menores, conocido con el nombre de «Trata de Blancas». ·Tercera. Denunciar a los Tribunales los referidos hechos, requiriendo la intervención del Ministerio Fiscal en los procedimientos que se incoen, e interesar a las Autoridades en general la adopción de medidas protectoras de la juventud femenina. ·Cuarta. Ejercer las funciones tutelares de vigilancia, recogida, tratamiento e internamiento sobre aquellas menores que los Tribunales, Autoridades y particulares le confíen, especialmente las menores de dieciocho años. ·Quinta. Velar por la persecución de los delitos o faltas cometidos mediante publicaciones obscenas o formas plásticas, ya descarada o disimuladamente bajo apariencias científicas o artísticas, y proponer medidas que impidan la circulación, exportación e importación de objetos y publicaciones pornográficas. ·Sexta. Procurar el cumplimiento de cuantas disposiciones nacionales relacionadas con los fines del Patronato estén inspiradas en la moral católica, así como los acuerdos internacionales de igual clase ratificados por España. ·Séptima. Proponer al Gobierno las reformas legislativas que estime necesarias y la adopción de las de carácter judicial o gubernativo que entienda adecuadas, así como aquellas obras precisas al cumplimiento de los acuerdos internacionales ratificados por España. ·Octava. Proponer al Gobierno fuentes de ingreso para el sostenimiento de las atenciones del Patronato e interesar a la acción privada a fin de que contribuya al sostenimiento económico del mismo. ·Novena. Organizar la formación del personal de ambos sexos, perfectamente especializado en los problemas de protección moral de la mujer. ·Décima. Fomentar la creación y desarrollo de instituciones dedicadas a los mismos fines, impulsando y coordinando las actividades de cuanto organismos trabajan esta material singularmente atendiendo a la preservación de las mujeres recluidas en Establecimientos penitenciarios, a cuyo fin mantendrá relación con las Direcciones Generales de Seguridad! y Prisiones; igualmente prestará atención especial a la labor circuncarcélaria y postcarcelaria que con relación a las mismas realiza el Patronato Central para la Redención de las Penas por el Trabajo.

Catherine Crosslin, Alpha Eta - Whitman College, is Owner & CEO of Instar Performance, an internationally recognized personal and organizational development company. Ms. Crosslin has a global reputation as a dynamic, inspiring and influential presenter, consultant and coach. In this episode, Catherine shares the 5 ways we fail at achieving our dreams and how to stop that cycle to be successful in obtaining the life we want. https://www.instarperformance.com/ Instar Affirmation Writer (available in your app store) ccrosslin@instarperformance.com #Instar.Performance Delta Gamma Fraternity, Delta Gamma Foundation and Delta Gamma Office of Housing do not endorse, promote or foster political, sociological or ideological ideas or issues by members, chapters, associations with Delta Gamma or in the name of Delta Gamma Fraternity.

La Senadora UDI, Luz Ebensperger, se refirió al segundo retiro del 10% de fondo de pensiones, luego de haber votado en contra.

La Senadora UDI, Luz Ebensperger, se refirió al segundo retiro del 10% de fondo de pensiones, luego de haber votado en contra.

Follow Erika on Instagram at @Instar.gardens (https://www.instagram.com/instar.gardens/) https://www.instagram.com/p/BZlsGK7lVNB/ check out her favorite products here. (https://instargardens.com/supplies) https://www.instagram.com/p/B9-eDdig_uf/ Read the unedited computer generated https://app.podscribe.ai/episode/52551291 (https://app.podscribe.ai/episode/52551291) (https://www.foragerproject.com/) And make sure you check out ForagerProject and don't forget to Cultivate Democracy and Vote! (https://www.foragerproject.com/) Support this podcast

Border Crossings host Larry London sat down with Vesper Wood whose debut solo album, "Instar" is fueled by her experiences with fertility and reproductive health, and frustration at the lack of support and awareness surrounding women’s health.

Instar by Carrow Narby       They just broke ground this week on a new high rise. When they cracked into the earth it flooded the neighborhood with the stench of sulfur. There’s a layer of ancient rot beneath the pavement. Centuries worth of life, ground into filth. Or so I imagine. I had to look up the source of the smell and some local news site attributed it to “organic materials” in the soil. I was worried that it might be a gas leak. For the past few mornings the wind has pushed the awful smell in through the screen above my bed. As bad as it is, it isn’t worth shutting the window. Even as late summer beats on, I can’t sleep without the weight and softness of ten thousand blankets. Without the breeze my nest would become unbearably hot, so I tolerate the smell of brimstone and corruption. It’s sort of fitting, I think, given the maggoty turn that my life has taken.   Full episode after the cut.   Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 67 for March 8, 2019. This is your host Keffy, and I'm super excited to share this story with you. Our story today is "Instar" by Carrow Narby, which is part of the Summer 2018 issue of GlitterShip.   Carrow Narby lives on the north shore of Massachusetts. Their writing has been featured in Bitch, The Toast, The Establishment, and PodCastle. Follow them on Twitter @LocalCreature.       Instar by Carrow Narby       They just broke ground this week on a new high rise. When they cracked into the earth it flooded the neighborhood with the stench of sulfur. There’s a layer of ancient rot beneath the pavement. Centuries worth of life, ground into filth. Or so I imagine. I had to look up the source of the smell and some local news site attributed it to “organic materials” in the soil. I was worried that it might be a gas leak. For the past few mornings the wind has pushed the awful smell in through the screen above my bed. As bad as it is, it isn’t worth shutting the window. Even as late summer beats on, I can’t sleep without the weight and softness of ten thousand blankets. Without the breeze my nest would become unbearably hot, so I tolerate the smell of brimstone and corruption. It’s sort of fitting, I think, given the maggoty turn that my life has taken. There are these long, wonderful moments, in between waking and rising, when I am both sentient and senseless. The light doesn’t resolve yet into images. Sensation doesn’t crystallize into meaning. Best of all, I can’t feel my body or apprehend its shape. You see an awful lot about monsters these days. Just everywhere you look, endless breathless chatter about fucking monsters, turning into monsters, giving birth to monsters. Beautiful and interesting people who just happen to be monsters: some sad grackle-winged boy, a girl with coral antlers. Everyone always looks so slender and sharp. Perfect rows of needle teeth, perfect iridescent scales, perfect gold stiletto claws. It seems downright glamorous, like it would all be neon witches’ sabbaths and subterranean raves or something. For me, monsterhood is mostly just strangers demanding to know what I am. There wasn’t any kind of initiation waiting for me. No coven or cabal. No prophecy or secret past was revealed. It was on my own and by creeping increments that I realized I had become a thing. Kris is a friend of a friend. I saw her around a few parties and we fumbled into each other’s orbits. She called out my name from across the room once, amid the din of disparate conversations. It was so charming, that little gesture of being summoned. I let her ask me out, to sit with her in that park at the edge of the North End. When we meet, she wants to go down Hanover to Mike’s but I point just across the street to a tiny storefront with a blue and yellow sign. “It’s way better,” I insist, and I feel strangely proud as she acquiesces. The leading edge of autumn has brought a welcome break from the suffocating heat, but it also means that the sunlight has shifted. As Kris and I sit together, the late afternoon light lances down at us. It’s relentless, prying. I wonder if she can tell how much I’m trying to hide from it. Despite my anxiety, we talk easily and idly. When she was little, Kris recalls, she heard somewhere about the dangers of zebra mussels. They’re an invasive species around the Great Lakes, she explains. Her mother must have read a sign to her or something, warning boaters to inspect and clean their hulls. Except that Kris was maybe four at the time, and she had no concept yet of what a mussel is. She heard “zebra muscles.” What she pictured, she tells me, was downright nightmarish. Not a muscular zebra or something, but a boat encrusted with disembodied, pulsing zebra flesh. She says that the image came from nowhere except the most literal understanding of what she had heard, and that it became horrible only afterward, in retrospect. “I didn’t understand but I just accepted it,” she laughs. I grin too, and I tell her “I love that.” And I love sitting here, with a friend of a friend that I met at a party. Normality is too distant even to long for, but here is something so conventional, so pleasantly dull. I wonder if there are people who feel like this all the time and I almost ask that out loud. But all at once I realize that she’s looking at me, and I can’t bear it. She can see me in the slanted orange light. The rays reveal the translucency around my edges, the ugly pulse of slime beneath the membrane of my skin. I can feel the buttons of my jacket straining. I can’t eat the pastry that I’ve bought, not in front of her. She must realize that my clothes are holding me into a human shape. She’s imagining the strange organs that shudder and twitch beneath the seams. I can’t force myself to say much more before we part ways. She knows. I’m sure that I won’t hear from her again. I slump back toward Haymarket. I huddle stingless on a crowded E train. My spines are sparse and transient: often I neglect to shave, sometimes my keys poke out through a hole that they’ve worn in the pocket of my coat. It is the fate of monsters, no matter what, to attract would-be monster-slayers. For me, this has never been as straightforward as a jeering mob or as romantic as a lone man with a glittering sword. This time it’s kids. A small group of ninth or tenth graders, maybe, standing on the other side of the train car. They gesture toward me and consult each other in stage whispers, wondering aloud what I could possibly be. There’s this image, a fragment of a story. I don’t remember where I picked it up or what first made me think of it, but it’s there in my brain and it’s this: Once upon a time a baby was found in a beehive. By chance, a passing witch heard a newborn’s squall. Amid a hovering cloud of bees, she cracked apart a hollow log. And there was an infant nestled in the rot, slick with honey, as pale as a grub. I don’t know what happens after that or why any of it happened at all. It had started with sacrificing some of the other larvae to widen her cell. And things just took off from there, I suppose. Things took a turn, as they will do. At home I start to undress as soon as I’ve closed the door. When I finally peel the tight undermost layer away from my torso, my body sags out, shapeless. I slump onto the bed and burrow down into the tangle of blankets. As I curl up tight, I tuck a bit of sheet between every segment and fold, so that I don’t have to feel the awful touch of myself. I can’t say when or how my metamorphosis began. Day by day I watched my face bloat outward, swallowing up my eyes, my jaw. My skin became a pallid casing. It strains to hold in my shuddering mass, as if my body wants to burst and dissolve. I have always been drawn to hollows and nests and to the dirt. Spaces in the dark where a thing might press itself flush against the walls, unseen and safe. As a child I would build a cairn of pillows around myself before falling asleep. I used to turn over the rocks that edged my mother’s garden, to watch the millipedes and woodlice scatter. Eager to recoil from the sight of a grub writhing helplessly against the light. In my tiny apartment there is an alcove that, I think, was meant for a writing desk. But I wedged my bed into it, and closed it off with a heavy curtain. I guess that it has all been a sort of instinctive preparation. Like the bees widening the larval infant’s cell. The thing is, it’s not just shiny little flying things that start their lives as fat, fumbling worms. It isn’t all butterflies and bluebottles. There are things in the world that wriggle freely as larvae and then pupate into sessile blobs. I think about all those mornings when I stretch out shapeless and insensible. I wonder if I’ll turn out to be more of a sea sponge than a sphinx moth. Kris calls. She wants to see me again. We meet at my place. I don’t know what to say about the evening in the park but she doesn’t ask about it. She calls me by my name again. She wants to know if I’m alright. I tell her about that unshakable image of the bee-child. “What must it be like,” I sigh. To wonder why, out of a sea of sisters, you were the one to swell into something wingless and terrible. “What must it be like,” she echoes. She’s sitting beside me, looking down at her hands. She smells like soap and trampled grass. I want to settle in closer to her—to kiss her, I realize—but she has seen me in that searching autumn light. “You know,” I say. She takes my hand. “Is that your bed?” she asks, nodding toward the alcove. “Yes.” “Can I show you something?” I don’t know how to respond. She tugs me gently toward the bed and draws the curtain aside. The final cast-off rays of sunset are glancing in through the window. She turns and looks at me. Her cheek catches the light with a faint damson iridescence. She tilts her head and reveals a weird translucency about her neck and face. I can see the steady pulse of veins and pulpy glands beneath her skin. Her tone isn’t mocking, just forthright, as she asks, “Did you really think that you were special?” I guess that I did. I tell her: “I thought I was alone.” She reaches out to draw me close. We sink down into my nest and curl up tight against each other. In her touch I can feel the hum of twenty thousand sisters, the promise of clover and of wings.   END     “Instar” was originally published in The Fem, and is © Copyright Carrow Narby, 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. You can also pick up a free audio book by going to www.audibletrial.com/glittership or buy your own copy of the Summer 2018 issue at www.glittership.com/buy Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with "These are the Attributes by Which You Shall Know God" by Rose Lemberg.    

Tell the Phoenix Fox, Tell the Tortoise Fruit by Cynthia So   On the day Sunae turned nine years old, there was no joyful feast. A monster burst from the sea that night and ate five people. The Mirayans gathered upon the shore to watch this, as they did every Appeasement. Sunae’s mother covered Sunae’s eyes, but Sunae still heard the screams. The crunch of brittle bone between teeth. The wet gulp of gluttonous throats. Sunae prayed to the Goddess that the warrior Yomue might rise from the dead and defeat the monster yet again. No warrior came, but a hand grasped Sunae’s and squeezed. A hand as small as her own. When it was over, Sunae’s mother murmured, “Now we will be safe for another ten years.” She removed her hands from Sunae’s eyes, and Sunae flinched from the gore before her. The older children always said that this was why Miraya’s beaches were pink, but she hadn’t been convinced until she saw the sands now drenched with fresh blood. Dark red on dusk pink. Full transcript after the cut:     Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 66 for March 5, 2019. This is your host Keffy, and I'm super excited to share this story with you. Today we have a GlitterShip original, "Tell the Phoenix Fox, Tell the Tortoise Fruit" by Cynthia So and a poem by Chanter, "The Lamentations of Old Money." This episode is part of the newest GlitterShip issue, which was just released and... is very late. The "Summer 2018" issue of GlitterShip is available for purchase at glittership.com/buy and on Kindle, Nook, Kobo, and now Gumroad! If you're one of our Patreon supporters, you should have access to the new issue waiting for you when you log in. For everyone else, it's $2.99, and all of our back issues are $1.49. GlitterShip is also a part of the Audible Trial Program. This means that just by listening to GlitterShip, you are eligible for a free 30 day membership on Audible and a free audiobook to keep. If you'er looking for an excellent book of short queer stories to listen to, you should check out Bitter Waters by Chaz Brenchley. This book is full of speculative fiction featuring gay men and was awarded the Lambda Award for best LGBT speculative fiction. To download Bitter Waters for free today, go to www.audibletrial.com/glittership -- or choose another book if you're in the mood for something else. Up first, our poem:   Chanter is a proud Wisconsinite who took flight (alas, not literally) from her originating small town, headed for the big city’s more accepting climes and never looked back.  She’s proudly asexual, demisensual, and some flavor of bi- or panromantic that’s as yet proving difficult to define.  She’s also brand squeaky new (emphasis, occasionally, on squeaky) to official publication.  Besides holding down a day job, she’s an active shortwave radio DXer and ham operator, as well as a crowdfunded author currently based mainly on Dreamwidth.       The Lamentations of Old Money by Chanter   Jennifer doesn’t want a white dress. She doesn’t want a church,an altar, a tangle of coast-grown flowers,sisters in matching silk, trained doves, stained glass,twenty overlaid colognes and splintering sunlight,rehearsed organ music andrecorded pop shorthand warbling through weak speakers,biting April breezes, overthought hair and makeup,snow in hardwood aisles. Jennifer doesn’t want a wild time. She doesn’t want hips around shoulders, tools and toys,filthy supplications and hot breath ideas,hours between bedsheets, sticky aftermaths,bruises as tawdry mementos in hard to reach places,hands and mouths, teeth and tongues and fluids,too many entrances,the junctions of legs and legs and legs. Jennifer doesn’t want hard edges. Not for her, leashes, spike heels and bad girl pretense.not for her, the bite of too-demanding fingertipsgrinding at her biceps,cold and bruising at her cheeks,clamped into the flesh of her wrists.Not for her, orders with teeth both behind and in them,whipcracks in voice and deed.Not for her, daddy’s little anything, mommy’s little anything,a schoolgirl’s life, a paddle’s life,princess, flower, whore.Not for her, latex and custom-made chains,iron protocol and a child’s tear-stung punishments,revoked names and Halloween’s expected trappings. Not for her, anonymity.Not for her, all of the spiceand none of the wine to mull with it. What Jennifer wants? Fits on a two-sided coin. One side: Jennifer wants nights asleep in a hayloft, clothes on,with siblings in arms—and black coffee,and cotton-coarse humor, and blood—to her left and right. Jennifer wants a uniform,wants honest lamplight with a wick beneath it,wants a hundred songs and a hand-tuned fiddle,a guitar played at a campfire,laces and burlap, branches and homespun wool,antique language, tactile camaraderie,respected rank and unresented ceremony,world-spanning care so personal it can’t be feigned,so simultaneously subtle and frank that it confuses,so elegant it’s genuine,so casual it’s ancient.“To be fair, that one does drive me utterly mad of an afternoon butGod be good, dear fellow, why wouldn’t I?” Jennifer wants a certain amount of ignored anachronism,wants a world where ‘dear fellow’as affectionate genderless address is just fine,where ‘she’s a good man to have beside you in a fight’is perfectly acceptable wording,but where the phrase ‘man up’ is both soundly off limitsand considered decades or centuries distant, depending;a world where, at the end of the day,it’s quietly acknowledged and otherwise near-forgottenthat oh yes, that one there, she’s a girl.As in woman.As in, see also, dame. Noun.Example I: To go to work for the war efforton the road under cover of darkness,on the air for the BBC,or on the battlefield firing decisive cannon blast volleyslike a real dame. Example II:I’m a girl, and mostly,I prefer other dames to fellas. Mostly.But when I don’t, I kinda have a type? Ahem!” Somewhere, a coin is balancing on its edge. And the flip side: Jennifer wants to write a hundred stories and bind them in hard covers,wants modern skirts to her ankles,comfortable jeans and blue corduroy coat sleeves,wants city streets, steel toes and long hair,near-distant clocktower bells,silver jewelry bought by her own hand, in her own name,a rocking chair made to last for decades,a damn fine radio setup,the solid strength of a wooden door at her backafter she and she - he and she - they and sheafter they’ve crashed through itand, fully clothed, battered it closed behind them. Both sides: Jennifer wants her wrists pressed flat against that wooden door,all benevolent force, all warmth,all welcome gravity, all burgeoning life in orbit,all the steady strength of a starin symbiosis with a planet.Jennifer wants voices and voices and voices,innocent details and muscle-melting,breath-stealing turns of phrase,sound serving as light serving aslodestone to the iron in every millimeter of herexcept, except, for a bare and unbared few. One side: Jennifer wants the wind at her back,a message, a mission, a reason and a warning,miles and miles and miles rolled outunder a sky filled with leaden stars,a purpose and a signal, a gesture,an anticipation of commandthat tenses her like a bowstringbefore—wait, wait, wait for it—rush for it— “Fire!” Both sides: Jennifer wants to be eager,to be teeming under her skin with silver,wants a reason and a cause and a leader who’sfallible by self-description, near-matchless by others’ accounts,wants to thrill to rank, surname, simple designation,wants to know at exactly what she’s aimed,near-precisely what will happen when she hitsand that yes, the trusted, entirely human handsof gravity to a planetare the only hands pulling or perhaps, perhaps,the only hands directing those pulling her string,wants to be entirely, mindfully, consensually willingto be fired like a longbow. And the flip side: Jennifer wants to bringa girlfriend home to her parents,wants to curl into accented wordslike they’re warm compresses and quilts,wants to make promises and keep them,find each others’ keys,play each others’ record collections,brush cat hair off each others’ sweaters,adore and be adored forever,not live together.Jennifer wants to never grow tired of hearing herself say“This is Elaine.” Or “This is Kim.” Or “This is...”“This is my better half.” Both sides: Jennifer wants orders that both delight herand fill her with clean purpose,stoking a fire that consumes every inch of herexcept, except, for the space between her thighs.Jennifer wants the intersectionwhere bravery meets well-placed loyalty.Jennifer wants to know exactly what she’s doing,wants to be utterly sure of her cause,to make up her entire mind, on her own,and then raise her voiceand throw herself into the thing with abandonbecause yes, this is right, this is reason, this is exuberanceand happiness and righteous fury blazing, this isbright history, this is justice, this is-- One coin. With two sides. Jennifer wantsthe rarity that is liking of, love for,acceptance and welcome ofboth the existence and the admissionof her two sides. Even when she’s difficult.Even when she’s horrible.Even when she’s irrational.Even when she’s just, so most people would say,plain off baseline weird. Especially when she’s weird. All of the wine to mull withall of the spiceground by capable hands.Hands ringed in silver. Hands at the ends of corduroy sleeves. The sleeves of a coat that may have,once or twice,been a makeshift pillow in a hayloft. After a night’s ride. After a night’s mission.       Cynthia So is a queer Chinese writer from Hong Kong, living in London. She spent her undergrad crying over poets that have been dead for 2,000 years, give or take. (She’s graduated now, but still crying.) Her short fiction has appeared in Anathema, Arsenika, and Cast of Wonders. She can be found on Twitter @cynaesthete. Zora Mai Quỳnh is a genderqueer Vietnamese writer whose short stories, poems, and essays can be found in The SEA Is Ours, Genius Loci: The Spirit of Place, POC Destroy Science Fiction, Luminescent Threads: Connections to Octavia Butler, Strange Horizons, and Terraform. Visit her: zmquynh.com. Rivia is a Black and Vietnamese Pansexual Teen who has a passion for reading, video games and music. She says “I’m gender questioning but also questioning whether or not I’m questioning...Isn’t gender just a concept?” You can hear her vocals on Strange Horizon’s podcast for “When she sings…”   Tell the Phoenix Fox, Tell the Tortoise Fruit by Cynthia So       On the day Sunae turned nine years old, there was no joyful feast. A monster burst from the sea that night and ate five people. The Mirayans gathered upon the shore to watch this, as they did every Appeasement. Sunae’s mother covered Sunae’s eyes, but Sunae still heard the screams. The crunch of brittle bone between teeth. The wet gulp of gluttonous throats. Sunae prayed to the Goddess that the warrior Yomue might rise from the dead and defeat the monster yet again. No warrior came, but a hand grasped Sunae’s and squeezed. A hand as small as her own. When it was over, Sunae’s mother murmured, “Now we will be safe for another ten years.” She removed her hands from Sunae’s eyes, and Sunae flinched from the gore before her. The older children always said that this was why Miraya’s beaches were pink, but she hadn’t been convinced until she saw the sands now drenched with fresh blood. Dark red on dusk pink. She looked at the girl next to her, the girl who was holding her hand, and she saw a determination in those eyes as bright as the moon, as bright as her own. A determination to make sure that this would never happen again. “I’m Oaru,” the girl said. “What’s your name?” Sunae looked down at their clasped hands and told Oaru her name.   The Temple of the Moon Goddess is the most beautiful place on the island. There are no straight lines and sharp angles within, but everything is curved and gentle and swooping. Shades of blue deepen as one enters through the front, the colors of twilight intensifying into midnight, accented by silver and broken up by patches of brilliant white that gleam through the dark. A pool of water from the Moon Lake shimmers in the atrium. Frosty glass cut into lunar shapes hang from the ceiling in long, glittering threads. All of it is flawless craftsmanship, except for the wall of the prayer hall. The hall is perfectly circular. Spanning a semicircle on the wall is a painting of Yomue, splendid in lustrous armor, wielding a sword as black as her hair and an expression as fierce as the sea. The sand of the Mirayan beach is pink beneath her feet, and she glares at the monster that towers over her. Its writhing, many-headed form is etched into the blackness of the night. The moon hangs above them, solemn and full. The other half of the wall is blank, its contents effaced and forgotten. Warrior confronts monster. What’s the rest of the story? Monster leaves island alone for a hundred years. Warrior dies, and monster comes back. It is starved and salivating, with too many teeth. Every ten years, it must be fed. Is that what was on the other half of the wall? Sunae’s mother buys her Carrucean books to read, because Carrucean is an important language to learn well. In Carrucean tales, monsters are always slain. Heroes sometimes journey into foreign lands and kill other people’s monsters for them, and they are rewarded with riches and brides and thrones. Sunae is ten years old, but she knows this: there are Carruceans living in Miraya. Miraya was owned by Carrucea for hundreds of years, and then there was a treaty of some sort not long before Sunae was born, and now Miraya belongs to the Mirayans again. The Carruceans came here to their island. They governed the island and lived here for centuries, but no Carrucean ever killed the monster for them. Yet here they are on the island still, with their wealth, their power. Their Mirayan wives. “Mother, have any Carruceans ever been fed to the monster?” Sunae asks. Her mother frowns. “Can’t we talk about something more cheerful?” Sunae just wants to know how to defeat the monster. If no Carruceans will come to their aid, then who will?   The old Library of Miraya is a burnt husk with a blackened facade, secluded from the town and set into the side of a hill, a little way from the Moon Lake. Sunae doesn’t understand why it hasn’t been torn down to make way for something new when fire ravaged it long ago, but perhaps its remote location preserved it. Evidently the Mirayans of yore prized a peaceful reading environment. Sunae can hear nothing of the bustling town here, only a chorus of birds. She also doesn’t understand why she is letting Oaru drag her into the grim ruins. Inside, the half-collapsed roof lets in some lemony sunlight, but there is an unpleasant smell like overripe tortoise fruit, and rows of charred shelves loom and menace. “It went this way,” Oaru says, and drops to her hands and knees to crawl through a tiny hole in the wall. Sunae sighs and follows. She gets stuck, her shoulders being broader than Oaru’s, but Oaru wrenches her free with a painful yank. She emerges into a cramped and airless space, illuminated only by the glow of the phoenix fox, which is swishing its enormous tail back and forth, sweeping away layers of ash and dust from the wall behind it. Sunae coughs, but Oaru grabs her arm excitedly. “There’s something on the wall!” Oaru leans over the fox and scrubs at the wall with her sleeve, gradually revealing the faded colors of a painting: a woman in an ethereal blue gown, sitting with a brush in her hand. A long scroll of paper unfurls before her, inked in an illegible, swirling script. “Doesn’t that look a bit like Yomue?” Oaru asks. It seems impossible that this serene woman should resemble the powerful warrior in the temple, but she does. It’s in the proud tilt of her jaw, maybe. Sunae reaches out and traces the woman’s chin. She has never been permitted to touch the temple mural, though she has longed to. “What is she doing?” Oaru wonders. “Writing poetry?” Sunae ventures. The phoenix fox smirks at her and stretches lazily before slipping out through the hole in the wall, leaving them in absolute darkness. Oaru yelps, “I’ve got to catch that fox!” She tugs at Sunae’s elbow and Sunae reluctantly goes with her. It’s as much a struggle to get out as it was to get in, and the fox is nowhere to be seen by the time Sunae has wriggled through.   The new Library of Miraya is a clean and functional building, centrally located, right next to the Town Hall. Most of the space is dedicated to Carrucean books, with the Mirayan literature section tucked into a dismal corner. Sunae asks a librarian to help her find Yomue’s poems. “Yomue wasn’t a poet,” the librarian says, puzzled. “But I can recommend poetry from the same time period. Not much of it survived, what with the old Library burning down... But there is some, and it’s very beautiful. Do you know how to read Classical Mirayan, though?” In the end, Sunae walks away from the Library with a few books and a leaflet for free Classical Mirayan lessons. By the time she turns twelve, she has read all the Classical Mirayan poetry that the Library has to offer—and all the modern Mirayan poetry, too. She tries her hand at writing her own poem. She writes about Yomue and the monster. Yomue’s husband, wrongfully convicted of murdering a man, chained to a pillar on the shore, awaiting his execution. Yomue weeping at his feet. The moon trembling in the sky, the Goddess watching. Yomue dressing herself in armor, carefully lacing her breastplate, looping her belt through the buckle. Whetting her sword and sheathing it. Her hair, tied back with a ribbon given to her by her husband. Her boots hitting the ground, her armor jangling. The monster howling, crashing back into the sea where it nurses its wounds for a hundred years. Sunae wins a competition at school with this poem, and gets a shiny badge that she pins to her satchel. She is fourteen, and she writes about nature: trees touching, sands blushing. The ocean embracing the coast. Leaves tender for one another. Mountains asleep next to each other. The moon observing everything. She is sixteen, and Oaru bets a boy she can beat him in a swordfight. Sunae has watched Oaru practise in her garden every week for five years, first with a toy sword, then with a real one; Oaru is graceful and deft with it where Sunae has always fumbled and flailed. Oaru and the boy are wearing white clothes and using wooden swords dipped in red paint; the boy soon looks like a bloody mess and yields, while Oaru is still pristine. “You were amazing,” Sunae says afterwards, as Oaru is cutting into a celebratory tortoise fruit. Oaru waves a slice of it in her face, and Sunae grimaces at its distinct mustiness. “Ew, no thank you.” “How can you not like tortoise fruit?” Oaru says, shaking her head. “Are you even Mirayan?” Sunae sticks her tongue out. “It smells like a sweaty armpit and it tastes even worse.” Oaru eagerly bites into the purple flesh of the fruit. “You should know though, you kind of looked like a tortoise fruit just then, when I wafted it under your nose.” Sunae blinks at the wrinkled skin of the tortoise fruit in horror. “I looked like that? Don’t be so mean!” Oaru laughs and nudges her side. “All right, I’m sorry—but hey, do you think I’ll be good enough to defeat the monster someday?” No. Don’t you dare try. Sunae swallows. Oaru must be the best fighter Miraya has seen in generations. Surely if anyone has a chance to ward off the monster and stop more Appeasements from happening, it’s her. How can Sunae be so selfish as to hold Oaru back for fear of losing her? She says, “You look so much like Yomue in the temple mural when you’re moving with that sword.” Oaru’s breath catches, and Sunae suddenly understands what it is she has really been trying to write poetry about all this time. They are alone in Sunae’s bedroom, and Sunae kisses Oaru. There is tortoise fruit on Oaru’s tongue, cloying and bitter, but Sunae doesn’t scrunch up her nose. She doesn’t mind at all. “That has to be the boldest thing you’ve ever done,” Oaru whispers, her lips soft and purpled, her hair mussed by Sunae’s hands. “I guess you inspired me,” Sunae says, and Oaru grins and grips Sunae’s arms. “Remember that time I tried to catch the phoenix fox?” Sunae nods. Every day she thinks of the painted woman lit by the phoenix-fox fire. The nameless poet buried in the rubble, her face so strangely like Yomue’s. Sunae returned to the shadowy wreckage of the old Library once, but she has grown and can no longer contort herself to fit through that hole in the wall. “I wanted to give the fox to you,” Oaru says. Oh. It is a Mirayan custom for young men to present phoenix foxes to girls they wish to marry. This fact had utterly escaped ten-year-old Sunae, who merely assumed that Oaru wanted the fox as a pretty pet. Sunae raises her eyebrows, stroking Oaru’s cheek with her thumb. “You already wanted to marry me when you were ten?” Oaru shrugs. “I didn’t know then, what it meant. I only knew I wanted to be your friend forever. But now I know what it actually means, for me to want to marry you.” Her eyes are serious, like a cloud veiling the moon. It means we could both be a part of the next Appeasement if anyone finds out. Sunae closes her eyes against the thought and kisses Oaru again. Sunae is eighteen and she is awarded a scholarship to study at the University of Wimmore, one of Carrucea’s world-famous institutions. If she takes the scholarship, she will be absent from Miraya for a year. She will be absent from Miraya on the day of the next Appeasement. Tell me what else there is, she pleads with the impassive image of Yomue on the wall, as everyone else in the prayer hall lifts their cupped hands repeatedly to their faces in the traditional gesture of worship. Tell me. Because if there is more to the story than a swordfight, then maybe she can convince Oaru not to risk her life. And if she has to go to Carrucea to find the answers, she will. At the end of the prayer session, when people are either shuffling off or lingering to socialize, Sunae tells Oaru about the scholarship. “It’s stupid that you have to go to Carrucea to learn more about this island, our island that we’ve been living on our whole lives.” Oaru spits the words, and her frustration echoes in the chambers of Sunae’s heart. “I know.” Sunae wants to run her hands through Oaru’s hair to comfort her, but it would be foolish to show such affection in public. She wants to hold Oaru’s hand, but they are not children anymore. They will not get away with it, not here where everyone can see. “Just promise me that you won’t try and take on the monster when the Appeasement comes. Please. You’re not ready.” I’m not ready. “I promise.” Oaru’s voice sounds fervent with honesty. Sunae hopes she has known Oaru for long enough to tell when she is lying.   The Moon Lake is luminous as a heart that brims full with emotion, and Sunae stands at the edge and dips her toes in. Oaru is naked in the water, moonlight dripping from her hair. Oaru wears a smile like a phoenix fox’s, sly and burning through Sunae. Oaru’s arms are muscled and impatient and open wide. “Come on, Sunae.” Sunae’s fingers hover over the knot that ties the sash around her waist. “You’re breaking the law,” she whispers. Oaru wades closer to Sunae. She lifts the hem of Sunae’s gown and kisses Sunae’s ankles. “We’ve been breaking the law for a long time, tortoise fruit,” she says, her dark eyes looking up into Sunae’s. “When has that ever stopped you?” She leaves wet handprints on the skirt of Sunae’s gown, droplets trickling down the backs of Sunae’s calves. “Who knows when we’ll get to do this again?” I’ll only be away for a year, Sunae thinks, but Oaru’s eyes are darker than fire-scorched walls, and Sunae knows it will be the longest year of their lives. She loosens the knot. Her gown joins Oaru’s in a careless heap on the sandy bank, and soon her body twines with Oaru’s in the water. Mist forms around them, as though the Goddess herself wishes to hide them away from the world.   Let’s skip ahead for a moment. It is Sunae’s nineteenth birthday, and she is chained to a pillar on the pink shore of Miraya. Her lover Oaru is shackled to a different pillar. They cannot touch or kiss each other. The monster is about to rear its ugly heads from the sea, and Sunae is crying, but she is speaking. She is reciting a poem she wrote, and I am watching, as I always have. I am listening. So how did they get here?   Sunae sits on the steps of a lofty sandstone building, shivering in the wind and eating a whole tortoise fruit by herself. She has been studying in Wimmore for four months, and she hasn’t made a single friend. The light in Wimmore is muted and cold, the streets narrow and grey, the houses foreboding and tall. People laugh at her accent. The dresses fashionable here are too tight, and she can never get enough air into her lungs. The air tastes nothing of salt, anyway. She misses the sea. She runs her fingers over the tough, knobbly green rind of the fruit. Her professor had bought it for the class to try—an expensive import from Miraya, not easily purchased. The others in her class had squealed over how disgusting the fruit looked and smelled as Dr. Janner was dissecting it like a corpse, and Sunae thought of Oaru’s teeth tearing into a wedge of tortoise fruit. Oaru’s tongue stained purple by its juice. Sunae had stood up, gathered the massive fruit in her arms as though it were a baby and marched out of the classroom. And now she is sitting on rain-wet stone and chewing miserably. How Oaru would tease her, if Oaru were here. A girl sits down next to her. Talia from her class, with wheat-colored curls flattened in the drizzle. “You really like tortoise fruit, huh?” Talia says. “I hate it,” Sunae says. “Let me try a bit, will you?” Sunae gives her a small slice and she takes a tentative bite. “Hmm, it tastes a lot better than it smells. Definitely not the texture I was expecting, though. It’s... squidgy?” She finishes the slice, throws the rind over her shoulder, and grabs another immediately. Sunae smiles. She thinks it must be the first time she has smiled since she set foot in Wimmore. “You like it more than I do, then.” “So what are you doing out here eating something you hate and crying?” Talia asks, squinting. “Don’t tell me that’s just the rain.” “It’s not just the rain,” Sunae says, rubbing a hand over her face. “It’s just... It’s what a friend calls me. Tortoise fruit.” “An affectionate nickname?” Talia turns the piece of wrinkly rind over in her hand. “Is it a cute boy who’s waiting for you at home?” Sunae hesitates. “Um. Not a boy.” And then, to distract Talia from fixating on that, she launches into an account of everything that’s been overwhelming her. She explains that the next Appeasement is happening soon, and that she has been trying to conduct research into the history and literature of Miraya to see if she can find any clues as to how Yomue defeated the monster last time and why the monster came back, but she still hasn’t found anything useful. “I just want to find another way,” Sunae says. “I don’t want my friend to do anything rash. I don’t want to lose her.” Talia presses her shoulder gently against Sunae’s. “One of my ancestors was part of the first expedition to Miraya. We have an attic full of things left behind by various family members. We’ve never managed to go through all of it properly, but you’re welcome to come and have a look.” This is how Sunae finds herself cross-legged on the dusty floor of Talia’s ridiculously big attic, cross-eyed after three continuous days of rifling through boxes of miscellanea in dim light, unable to believe what she’s looking at. It’s a roughly colored sketch of Yomue the warrior, copied from the temple wall. Sword and monster and moon. And beneath that, a sketch of Yomue again—a woman dressed in the same armor, holding not a sword but a scroll open in her hands. Next to her is something a little like a mirror, or a full moon: a vast circle, shaded in silver. Within it coils a spiral shadow. Sunae isn’t sure how to interpret this, but she knows that this Yomue and the painted poet in the old Library are one and the same. She rummages through the rest of the box which contained the sketches, and her hand touches worn leather. She pulls it out of the box and it falls open on her lap, yellowed pages crammed with neat handwriting. It’s a diary.   “Why do all you rich Carruceans have stuff just lying around in your attic that I’ve only been searching for my entire life?” Sunae mutters under her breath to Talia, who is sitting next to her at this dinner. She clenches her fist around her fork. “Well, at least now you can read Yomue’s poetry!” Talia whispers back. Dr. Sotkin, a dear friend of Dr. Janner, carries on explaining to everyone how he recovered the lost manuscript of Yomue’s poems when he was cleaning out his grandfather’s house after his grandfather recently passed away. Sunae saws away at her chunk of boiled beef. “I’ll be publishing a translation later this year,” Dr. Sotkin announces. Sunae takes a sip of water and a deep breath. “What kind of poetry is it?” she asks, proud of how calm and polite she sounds. “Sadly, it only survives in fragments, but I’ve brought a copy of some of them to share with all of you as a preview.” Dr. Sotkin digs in his bag and retrieves a sheaf of papers. “I believe Dr. Janner told me you can all read Classical Mirayan?” “Some of us better than others,” Talia murmurs to Sunae, and Sunae hides a smile behind her napkin. Some of the boys in their class seem to be getting by with barely any knowledge of Mirayan. Sunae assumes it must be their wealth that passes their exams for them. She takes the sheet that Dr. Sotkin offers to her and scans it quickly. Her mind whirls dizzily and she pushes away her plate and reads the fragment again, more slowly this time. And again. She closes her eyes and envisions the inscrutable moon in the night sky to steady herself. Dr. Sotkin is saying something about a man that Yomue is drinking with. “She compares her love for this man to the Moon Lake—a blessing that glimmers on and on.” Sunae hands the sheet to Talia and holds onto the edge of the table. “Dr. Sotkin,” she says, and she isn’t able to sound calm anymore. Her voice quavers. “I don’t believe Yomue is talking about a man. I know it’s only a fragment, but it’s clear from the grammar that she’s writing about a woman.” Dr. Sotkin frowns. “Did you not hear when I said that this is a love poem?” “Yes, I know, and I believe that Yomue’s beloved is a woman.” “That’s preposterous. It’s simply impossible.” “You think it’s impossible that Yomue loved another woman?” “What you are speaking of is highly illegal and punishable by death, young lady,” Dr. Sotkin sniffs. In both Miraya and Carrucea, yes—Sunae is extremely aware. “Are we to believe that Yomue shared these poems with the public and was not executed for her sins?” “Well, she warded off the monster, so there were no Appeasements—” Dr. Sotkin tugs haughtily at his cravat. “You do realize that it is possible to execute people without feeding them to a monster as you barbarians love to do?” “Love?” Sunae’s voice is shrill to her own ears; drums thunder in her ribcage. “You think we love having to feed people to a monster every ten years to keep it from destroying our whole island?” Dr. Sotkin’s face is pink as the sand on Miraya’s beaches. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” “Yes,” Dr. Janner joins in. “Sunae, your behavior of late has been extremely rude and disruptive and I’m afraid we cannot tolerate this. Dr. Sotkin is the foremost expert on Classical Mirayan and he will not be insulted by your bumbling reading of this poem.” “But she’s right!” Talia protests, jabbing at the sheet of paper. “Dr. Janner, Sunae’s right. Look at this line here.” “It’s all right,” Sunae says, putting her hand on Talia’s arm. “I’m leaving.”   Sunae’s head is still spinning from the fragment of Yomue’s poetry. It was so much like the poems that she has been writing about Oaru, folded into envelopes and sent across the ocean to her lover. One was about the glow of sweat and moon-water on Oaru’s skin, the night they drifted together in the Moon Lake, the last night they spent together. And now, this letter from her mother. She sinks to the floor of the post room and clutches her knees. She is going to be sick. The door creaks open. She looks up and Talia is there. “I’m so sorry,” Talia says. “You were such a fearsome warrior back there, speaking up to Sotkin like that. He’s utterly dreadful. Janner, too. I want to lock them both up in my attic and never let them out. Janner revoked your scholarship but he hasn’t even tried to suspend me.” Sunae stares at Talia and cannot speak. Talia doesn’t know about the letter yet. She thinks Sunae is just upset about what happened at the dinner, but the world is crumbling at Sunae’s feet and Talia has no idea. A smile stretches across Talia’s face. “Can you believe your legendary Yomue’s one of us?” Sunae’s shoulders loosen a little. “One of us?” “One of us,” Talia repeats and holds her hand out to Sunae, and Sunae understands. Instead of taking Talia’s hand, she lifts up the letter and gives it to Talia. Talia reads it and is speechless, too. She sits down next to Sunae and together they watch the flickering light bulb. It is no moon, but it soothes, somehow. Eventually, Talia asks, “When is the next Appeasement? Will you make it back in time?” “If I leave at dawn, I might,” Sunae says, hoarsely. “You’ll be arrested too if you go back, won’t you?” Sunae nods. “But you’re definitely going.” Sunae nods again. “Good luck,” Talia whispers. “If you don’t die, write me a poem. You have my address.” She kisses Sunae’s forehead.   Sunae crosses the ocean home. She prays to the Goddess. She prays to Yomue. She writes.   Which is what brings us here, to Sunae’s nineteenth birthday, and Sunae and Oaru on the beach where they first met ten years ago. “I love you,” Sunae says to Oaru. There is white sea-spray in Oaru’s windblown hair, and if Sunae’s plan doesn’t succeed, she wants this to be the last thing she ever sees. She closes her eyes. The waves lap the shore. Her lungs are full of salt air. The moon caresses her face with its white light. She opens her mouth. The truth comes out. Sunae wrote that silly poem when she was twelve, where I saved my husband from the monster. I laughed when I heard her read it to her classmates. Now she is a much better poet, and she has learnt so much—from sketches and diaries and mistranslated fragments—and this is what she tells the Mirayans. Four hundred years ago, Yomue loved another woman, and they had flowers and wine and stars; they chased phoenix foxes together in the valleys. They ate tortoise fruit and kissed each other’s mouths purple. They wrapped themselves in moonlight. Yomue was skilled with the sword, but even more skilled with words, and she was the Goddess’ favorite. She could not stand by and watch a monster kill more people in her town. She wove a spell out of poetry and enchanted the monster, led it to the Moon Lake where it slumbered for as long as she lived, and longer, because she taught others the poem. But the Carruceans came; they brought their laws with them, and they knew how powerful fear was. How to control a people with it. Fire bloomed in the Library; in the temple, fresh paint dried on the wall. Yomue the poet was erased from history. The monster was awoken, and anyone who caused trouble could be thrown into its devouring jaws. “Now you tell me I cannot love Oaru.   We chase a phoenix fox that Yomue tamed once, Reborn from the ashes of the Library. It hides poems in its fur. Tell the phoenix fox I cannot love Oaru.   We eat tortoise fruit grown from centuries-old trees, Roots as deep as our island. It hides poems in its rind. Tell the tortoise fruit I cannot love Oaru.   We bathe in the Moon Lake Yomue drank from, Water sacred to the Goddess. It hides poems in its bed. Tell the Moon Lake I cannot love Oaru.   Tell the Goddess I cannot love Oaru. Tell Yomue. Tell her and the woman she loved. Go back in time and bind her to this pillar and Tell her she was wrong.”   The monster rises out of the sea, torrents of water cascading from its back. Oaru was arrested because of Sunae’s poetry. Because Oaru’s father found the incriminating poems, because Sunae had sent so many and they overflowed, spilled, flooded Oaru’s room. Poems alight with the memories of all that Oaru and Sunae did together, all the times they were wide-eyed travelers in the landscape of each other’s bodies, all the smoldering hearths they built in the secret corners of each other’s hearts. The monster bellows and the earth quakes and Sunae is not afraid. She knows she is not the first who has been here. She is not the first who has done this.   “Let her tell you she is me. Let her open her mouth and Sing the monster to sleep Again.”   Sunae’s pores still have the magic blessing of moon-water in them, and I am with her. Through her, I sing. I was here, like her. I loved, like her. I fought the monster and won, and she will, too.   If you visit the Temple of Moon Goddess today, you will see this scene painted alongside my mural in the prayer hall: The monster walks spellbound across the island, and the Mirayans walk with it, every one of their faces slack with awe. Sunae leads them, freed from her shackles. She holds Oaru’s hand.   END   “The Lamentations of Old Money" is copyright Chanter 2019. “Tell the Phoenix Fox, Tell the Tortoise Fruit” is copyright Cynthia So 2019. 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. You can also pick up a free audio book by going to www.audibletrial.com/glittership or buying your own copy of the Summer 2018 issue at www.glittership.com/buy Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a reprint of “Instar" by Carrow Narby.

Today on Monster Porn: Matt Cummins presents "Sneakatchu Pro," the augmented reality knock-off game that is getting kids out of the house and into the Twilight Zone. Then, in "The Final Instar" by Bret Norwood, we examine those awkward ch-ch-changes of the adolescent male body and psyche. Thanks to Edward October, host of Octoberpod on Youtube for stopping by with the introduction! Check out his channel for more horror stories! https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCZQk-oAsjZNG18y8bX24c6w Are you a weird writer? No, I mean, like, a weeeeiiird writer? Monster Porn Podcast is now open for guest bonus episode submissions! Find our guidelines here: https://monsterpornpodcast.com/submissions/ If you enjoy this content, you are a sick, sick person. We like you. Please, if you like MPP back, please consider leaving us a review on Apple Podcasts / iTunes. It's the best way to support MPP right now! Also check out our store, https://teespring.com/stores/monsterporn, where you can find the amazing Nic Calavera t-shirt. Samples: "Car Door, Closing, A.wav" by InspectorJ (www.jshaw.co.uk) of Freesound.org "Police Siren.mp3" by MultiMax2121 also via Freesound.org

Today on Monster Porn: Matt Cummins presents “Sneakatchu Pro,” the augmented reality knock-off game that is getting kids out of the house and into the Twilight Zone. Then, in “The Final Instar” by Bret Norwood, we examine those awkward ch-ch-changes of the adolescent male body and psyche. Thanks to Edward October, host of Octoberpod on Youtube for stopping by with the introduction! Check out his channel for more horror stories! https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCZQk-oAsjZNG18y8bX24c6w Are you a weird writer? No, I mean, like, a weeeeiiird writer? Monster Porn Podcast is now open for guest bonus episode submissions! Find our guidelines here: https://monsterpornpodcast.com/submissions/ If you enjoy this content, you are a sick, sick person. We like you. Please, if you like MPP back, please consider leaving us a review on Apple Podcasts / iTunes. It’s the best way to support MPP right now! Also check out our store, https://teespring.com/stores/monsterporn, where you can find the amazing Nic Calavera t-shirt. Samples:“Car Door, Closing, A.wav” by InspectorJ (www.jshaw.co.uk) of Freesound.org“Police Siren.mp3” by MultiMax2121 also via Freesound.org

G’day possums, your friendly team have done it again, 3 hours of amazing music to enlighten your day, including a host of first timers to Sequences. Jean Marc Lederman, Eiland, & Zer0, from Belgian Neu Musik, Anaamaly, Michael Kollwitz, Ken Verheecke, & Scott Reich, new age, contemporary instrumental, world, ambient and more sounds, from US based, RS Promotions. Bluetech the master of analogue and modular sound synthesis and DSP audio manipulation, with one track in cooperation with, In The Branches, exploring various styles in his music. Delving into the more progressive side with an oriental twist, Lastelle, aided by guest musicians. Claus Jahn melodic sounds, crossing the boundaries of sequential/ambient and the short lived band, Emeralds, with complex analog/digital hybrid sounds. Ambient Nation 5 is a unique look into what the Belgium electronic musicians of today have to offer, compiling 28 tracks by renowned artists & amateur knob twisters. Contains only exclusive material, either written for this compilation or specially edited, remixed or live. On a sad note, Syngate Records, releases ’Transmissions’ by Jorge Bialinska, a.k.a., Ebia, his last composition before he passed away on the 17th January 2018, the consequences of an autoimmune disease. Okay! I know a lot of you purists in our genre of EM don’t like vocals, but the ethereal whispers with other worldly soundscapes from Pauline Cassidy, draws the listeners into a fantastic world of fairy tale like dreams. Finally after 25 years the new Peru album, coincidentally called ‘The Return’. That brings us to our blast from the past, choosing one of their tracks ‘Valley’ included on the 1989 Klem Compilation CD. Playlist No144 02.30 In The Branches & Bluetech ‘Opening In Time’ (album Behind The Sky) www.bluetech.bandcamp.com 09.13 Bluetech ‘Unshackled’ (album The 4 Horsemen Of The Electrocalypse: The Pale Horse) www.bluetech.bandcamp.com 13.43 Peru ‘Meteor’ (album The Return) 19.00 Peru ‘Valley’ (album Klem compilation 1989) 25.46 Emeralds ‘Genectic’ (album Does It Look Like I'm Here) https://emeraldsemego.bandcamp.com 37.47 Scott Reich ‘Voices Of Earth’ (album Instar) https://heartdancerecords.bandcamp.com 41.30 Scott Reich ‘Follow The Light’ 46.54 Anaamaly ‘Cosmic Waters’ (album Fields Of Light) https://heartdancerecords.bandcamp.com 54.47 Paulina Cassidy ‘Fernfox’ (album Phantom Gardens) www.projekt.com 58.18 Paulina Cassidy ‘Through The Eyes Of Orchids’ 01.01.50 Paulina Cassidy ‘Phantom Gardens’ 01.06.44 Jean Marc Lederman ‘Ode à La Pluie 1’ (album Ode A La Pluie) https://belgianneumusik.be 01.13.35 Zer0 れい ‘Sumitomo Soylent Revision’ (album Ambient Nation) https://belgianneumusik.be 01.18.30 Nothing But The Noise ‘No Wave – роботизированный’ (album Ambient Nation 5) 01.29.46 EarthWave ‘Mirage’ (album Ambient Nation 5) 01.36.14 ebia ‘Alien Message’ (album Transmission) www.syngate.net 01.49.02 Claus Jahn ‘Traffic Extended Edit’ www.clausjahn.bandcamp.com 01.55.47 Martin Neuhold & Claus Jahn ‘Rotating Spirals’ (album Gedanken) www.clausjahn.bandcamp.com 02.03.32 Lastelle ‘Shadow Puppets’ http://www.pebblemusic.com 02.05.56 Lastelle ‘Goodbye Shanghai’ 02.08.29 Lastelle ‘Jade Temple’ 02.11.41 Eiland ‘Beyond Mind & Matter’ (album Eiland) https://belgianneumusik.be 02.23.28 Age ‘Light Arrows’ (album Ambient Nation 5) 02.31.27 Claus Jahn ‘The Alien Within’ 02.37.34 Michael Kollwitz ‘Cloud Number Eleven’ (album Serenity III) www.rspromotionsus.com 02.42.39 Ken Verheecke ‘Be Still & Know’ (album Tripping The Light Fantastic) https://heartdancerecords.bandcamp.com 02.50.05 Emeralds ‘Candy Shoppe’

In occasione dell'uscita del loro nuovo album "Instar", gli autori della sigla di "Una Trasmissione di Nerda" Built-in Obsolescence fanno visita a I Bit-elloni con alcuni consigli per tutti i nerdosi che vogliono avvicinarsi al mondo dei videogiochi fai-da-te e alla musica Post-Atmo Metal!ibitelloni.comwww.builtinobsolescence.it

Another week, another #content. This week we talk about some news, some releases, and some other random stuff. Serj talking about why they're not working on a new System of a Down album, Mikael Akerfeldt talking about the upcoming Opeth album, Eden talking about his band Instar's new single, the new Pig Destroyer song, and new albums by Obscura and Between the Buried and Me. Oh, and also the new Horrendous track, and last year's Ne Obliviscaris album. Finally, cool people stuff with some classic sci-fi, some modern sci-fi, and some horror. Enjoy!

From where do all the celebrity photos in People, Us Weekly, Vanity Fair, and other magazines come? They come from hard-working professional photographers plying their trade, and the agencies that distribute and license these images, of course. On today’s episode of the B&H Photography Podcast, we will discuss the nuts and bolts of working in the celebrity and fashion news business—from the point of view of the agency and of the photographer.  There is no shortage of entertainment news photos, many of which are taken on the “red carpet” and through a collaborative network of celebrities, publicists, photographers, and agencies. Others, shot in less controlled settings, are a product of a photographer’s instinct and dogged persistence. This type—for good or bad—we call paparazzi photos. Arranged portrait sessions, concerts, and press conferences can also fall into this category of celebrity “news” and our guests, having experience in all the above, will discuss the distinctions between these, as well as the ins and outs of making a living in this arena. We welcome Chris Doherty, founder and owner of Instar Images. With offices in New York, London, and Australia, Instar is one of the top independent agencies specializing in entertainment news and events. We also speak with photographer Jennifer Graylock of Graylock.com, recipient of the 2017 Top Red Carpet Photographer Award. In addition to her work for celebrity and corporate clients, her photos often grace the pages of People, TV Guide, InStyle, and Glamour magazines. We ask Doherty what agencies look for in a photographer and what makes a good celebrity image. We also discuss the varying clients he works with, Instar’s website and archive, payment structures, and changes in the industry in the wake of smartphones and social media. Graylock brings the photographer’s perspective and talks about gear choices, protocol within the “pen,” protecting your copyright, and how to maintain relationships, get access, and stay “current.”  Join us for this very informative episode. Guests: Chris Doherty and Jennifer Graylock Photograph: © Karl Larsen/ Courtesy of Instar Images    

#Töövahetusraadio virtuaalmessi erisaade #karjääripäev #persoonibränd #instar by CV-Online Estonia

Finally the crew is back on track! This week we talk about... Stuff. The charges brought against Decapitated, Spotify removing Infant Annihilator songs, Womanowar getting copyright stricken, Phil Anselmo dragging his own racism back into the highlight, Samael's... incredibly tone deaf video, then new music or material from: Godspeed! You Black Emperor, August Burns Red, Coma Cluster Void, Good Tiger, Veil of Maya, Through The Eyes of the Dead, Gigan, Vulture Industries, and Shokran. Then, we talk about the new album of Eden's band, Instar! And, per a fan request, we do a mini-interview of me regarding NYN. Enjoy!

#Töövahetusraadio #7 saate külalisteks on CV-Online'i värske turundusassistent ehk sisulevisellinna Marita Haho, kelle esimese tööpäeva emotsioonid on veel värskelt meeles ning Thorgate'i turundusjuht Talis Tobreluts, kes tähistab stuudios oma esimese töökuu möödumist uues ametis. Saates helistame ka Soome tööandjabrändingu agentuuri Instar partnerile ja konsultandile Kersti Vannasele, kes on värskelt analüüsimas 2017. aasta Eesti inimeste töö-ootuste uuringu tulemusi.

#Töövahetusraadio #7 saates helistame Soome tööandjabrändingu agentuuri Instar partnerile ja konsultandile Kersti Vannasele, kes on värskelt analüüsimas 2017. aasta Eesti inimeste töö-ootuste uuringu tulemusi. Täpsemalt saab uuringutulemustele sisse vaadata CV-Online'i ja Instari ühisel suveseminaril 7. juunil Tallinnas.

Featured Artists: Iced Earth, Our Last Enemy, Into Eternity, Black Market Androids, Instar, Anthemon, Toxic, Forty Winters, Gojira,The Messenger, Blatant Finger