Podcast appearances and mentions of Jo Graham

What's up witches and welcome to an episode that is one part "classic Witchspace shit" and a second, slightly larger part "Gemini reckoning". With what? A lot! Gemini and Scorpio read 7 Goddesses of the Hellenistic World by Jo Graham, and while it might not be for everyone, there are definitely some reasons you might want to dive in!

Let's court powerful ancient goddesses and learn to make them work in our lives. Beyond their engaging myths and histories, we'll understand the mystical Hellenistic world that honored these deities. You probably haven't heard of many of these deities like Atargatis and Epona, and you'll find new dimensions to renowned ones like Isis, Athena, Cybele, Aphrodite, and Tyche. Of course, we'll cover Holy Wisdom.Astral Guest – Jo Graham, author of Seven Goddesses of the Hellenistic World: Ancient Worship for Modern Times. Join the Virtual Alexandria AcademyThis is a partial show. For the interview's second half, please become a member or patron at Patreon.Get the simple, effective, and affordable Red Circle Private RSS Feed for all full shows:More information on JoGet the bookSupport this podcast at — https://redcircle.com/aeon-byte-gnostic-radio/donationsAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

Jo Graham has practiced in Pagan and Hermetic traditions for more than thirty years, including leading an eclectic circle for nearly a decade. She has studied the Classical world extensively and today mainly works in traditions based on the Hellenistic Cult of Isis. Graham introduces readers in her book, Seven Goddesses of the Hellenistic World; Ancient Worship for Modern Times to the history and mythology of seven Hellenistic goddesses and teaches you how to work with each one in your spiritual practice. With the help of these powerful deities, you can improve your luck, resilience, teamwork, transformation, and more. Through stories, journal prompts, meditations, and rituals, Jo encourages you to explore your personal connection to each goddess. Draw on Athena's wisdom to bring clarity to your endeavors. Embody the power of a ruling queen with a rite to honor Atargatis. And enjoy all shades of love under Aphrodite's guidance. With this book, you can apply the ancient—but still relevant—lessons of Tyche, Isis, Epona, Cybele, and others for a more inspired devotional experience and empowered life. For more, visit; https://www.goodreads.com/author/list/993682.Jo_Graham Support the show Contact me at: postcardstotheuniverse@gmail.com Shout out and follow on IG - @postcardstotheuniverse https://linktr.ee/postcardstotheuniverse Thank you and keep listening for more great shows!

Jo Graham – Seven Goddesses of the Hellenistic WorldAir Date: Wednesday, 22 March 2023 at 4:00 PM ET/1:00 PM ETJo Graham has practiced in Pagan and Hermetic traditions for more than thirty years, including leading an eclectic circle for nearly a decade. She has studied the Classical world extensively and today mainly works in traditions based on the Hellenistic Cult of Isis.Graham introduces readers in her book, Seven Goddesses of the Hellenistic World: Ancient Worship for Modern Times to the history and mythology of seven Hellenistic goddesses and teaches you how to work with each one in your spiritual practice. With the help of these powerful deities, you can improve your luck, resilience, teamwork, transformation, and more.Through stories, journal prompts, meditations, and rituals, Jo encourages you to explore your personal connection to each goddess. Draw on Athena's wisdom to bring clarity to your endeavors. Embody the power of a ruling queen with a rite to honor Atargatis. And enjoy all shades of love under Aphrodite's guidance. With this book, you can apply the ancient—but still relevant—lessons of Tyche, Isis, Epona, Cybele, and others for a more inspired devotional experience and empowered life.For more, visit: https://www.goodreads.com/author/list/993682.Jo_Graham#JoGraham #PostcardsToTheUniverse #MelisaCaprioVisit the Show Page at https://omtimes.com/iom/shows/postcards-to-the-universeConnect with Melisa Caprio at https://www.postcardstotheuniverse.com/Subscribe to our Newsletter https://omtimes.com/subscribe-omtimes-magazine/Connect with OMTimes on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/Omtimes.Magazine/ and OMTimes Radio https://www.facebook.com/ConsciousRadiowebtv.OMTimes/Twitter: https://twitter.com/OmTimes/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/omtimes/Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/company/2798417/Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/omtimes/

Kefin Mahon is a podcaster who achieved the dream of making podcasting his full time career. Known for hosting wrestling podcasts The Attitude Era Podcast and How2Wrestling as well as movie podcast Cinema Swirl with former guest Sam Chaplin. Welcome to the seventy-first edition of The Chronicles of Podcast, these are The Chronicles of Kefin Mahon We are joined by Kefin Mahon a wonderful podcaster who hosts The Attitude Era Podcast with his friends Adam Bibilo and Billy Keable where they cover ppv's and storylines from The Attitude Era of the WWE and beyond. He also hosts How2Wrestling with his wife Jo Graham as he teaches her all about the world of wrestling and how to get into the world of wrestling and if that wasn't enough he also hosts Cinema Swirl with former guest of the show Sam Chaplin We talked to Kefin all about how he got into the world of wrestling, his history in stand up and what made him dip his toe into that world, how he met his Attitude Era co hosts, as well as the origin stories to his shows. All this and more including how he managed to turn podcasting into a full time career.  All this and more inside this edition of 'The Chronicles of Podcast' including Callum's Treachings, Tom's Journal & Jamie's Audience Participation challenge. If you like what you hear here then please don't hesitate to like and share this show with your friends and please make sure to follow us on all social medias and maybe even a little rating and review on your favourite podcasting apps. Official Website - The Chronicles of Podcast Official Sponsor - Stay Cozy Clothing Affiliate Charity - Sophie Lancaster Foundation Official Website - Podcrabs Network

It's the biggest episode so far, and quite possibly the most out of control... James ponders if animals can sin. Kit presents a new side to Michael Bay. Adam kills an Internet celebrity. Jo breaks the Producer. ----- Greenlit Theme 'In The Green' by Reece Lawrence - Composer | Reece Lawrence | United Kingdom Backbay Lounge by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/3408-backbay-lounge License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Bicycle by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/3434-bicycle License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license March of the Spoons by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4021-march-of-the-spoons License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Thatched Villagers by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4481-thatched-villagers License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license As I Figure by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/3383-as-i-figure License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Spy Glass by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4410-spy-glass License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Carpe Diem by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/3478-carpe-diem License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Folk Round by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/3770-folk-round License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Hall of the Mountain King by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/3845-hall-of-the-mountain-king License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Sunday Dub by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4435-sunday-dub License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Funky Chunk by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/3789-funky-chunk License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license Sound effects from https://www.zapsplat.com & https://www.fesliyanstudios.com & http://audionautix.com

Author Jo Graham joins Raina for an hour to discuss the current state of our world, politics, and writing. Jo Graham has practiced Pagan and Hermetic traditions for over 30 years, and is the cofounder of the Cult of Isis. For more of Jo's work, please visit: www.amazon.com/Jo-Graham/e/B001JSCECE

For more than seventeen years, publisher Fandemonium has been releasing Stargate novels to a ravenous fan community. Their bookshelf now extends to more than 50 books. Earlier this year, Dial the Gate sat down with Co-Founder Sally Malcolm to discuss this epic undertaking. Now she is back, bringing several of her fellow novelists. For this panel discussion Sally is joined by writers Jo Graham, Amy Griswold, Laura Harper, Melissa Scott and Susannah Sinard to discuss their works set in the Stargate universe. After the panel, visit the link below for the Stargate Novels Web site and explore their offerings! --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app

In Episode 3 of the SheRecovery Podcast, Crystal chats with Sundi Jo Graham. Sundi Jo (or SJ as she's known to friends) is a thought-provoking communicator who loves to share truth with a dose of laughter. She inspires others to break free from self-destructive behaviors so they can learn to love themselves and experience lasting transformation. In this interview, Sundi Jo shares her own story of radical transformation—overcoming abuse, rape, rejection, relational brokenness, and porn & food addiction spanning from early childhood to early adulthood. What's better is that she shares how what God has done in her life is possible for you as well. Learn more about Sundi Jo on her website at http://sundijo.com. Thank you for listening to the SheRecovery Podcast, a resource of SheRecovery.com. If you enjoyed this episode, share it with those who think will enjoy it too. You can also visit SheRecovery.com/Podcast to find our listener notes for this episode, to submit listener comments or questions, and more. Thank you again for listening and hope you will join us again next week.LEARN MORE ABOUT THE OTHER RESOURCES OFFERED AT SHERECOVERY AT SHERECOVERY.COM.Support the show (https://www.patreon.com/sherecovery)

  Author Jo Graham joins Raina for an hour to discuss the current state of our world, politics, and writing. Jo Graham has practiced Pagan and Hermetic traditions for over 30 years, and is the cofounder of the Cult of Isis. For more of Jo's work, please visit: www.amazon.com/Jo-Graham/e/B001JSCECE

Author Jo Graham joins Raina for an hour to discuss the current state of our world, politics, and writing. Jo Graham has practiced Pagan and Hermetic traditions for over 30 years, and is the cofounder of the Cult of Isis. For more of Jo's work, please visit: www.amazon.com/Jo-Graham/e/B001JSCECE    

Jo Graham comes back for a special hour to talk politics and discuss her follow up book to The Great Wheel: The Great Wheel WINTER  - Rituals To Thrive In The Dark Cycle Of The Saeculum. Jo Graham has practiced Pagan and Hermetic traditions for over 30 years, and is the cofounder of the Cult of Isis. For more of Jo's work, please visit: https://www.amazon.com/Jo-Graham/e/B001JSCECE  

Actual Title - The One With The Prom Video! with special guest Jo Graham! HAPPY BIRTHDAY SIT-CANNED!! We are officially ONE YEAR OLD today! And what an episode to land such an important milestone with! We are joined by the fabulous Jo Graham, co-host of How2Wrestling and SubCultured Podcast. Jo has played a massive part in getting Sit-Canned up and running and we are incredibly grateful for all the work she has done. Thank you SO MUCH everyone whose been listening to us the last year! We love you all so much.

The brilliant and amazing Jo Graham joins us to discuss her newest book, The Great Wheel - Living The Pagan Cycles Of Our Lives & Times, and her much anticipated book, The Great Wheel Winter - Rituals To Thrive In The Dark Cycle Of The Saeculum.

  Podcaster Jo Graham joins us on the island to talk about the forgotten women of professional wrestling, cowardly heroes and the first Discworld novel, The Colour of Magic. Visit Desert Island Discworld at http://desertislanddiscworld.com, on Twitter at @DIDiscworld, or contact us at desertislanddiscworld@gmail.com.  

Jo Graham from the How2Wrestling podcast joins Hal, Danielle and Lindsey to break down tons of news from the week in wrestling! She originally got into wrestling as a way to bond with her partner. Now, that’s turned into her own podcast and rabid fandom. WWE continues to move their stars across both shows, with multiple people making their debuts on RAW and Smackdown. Most significantly, AJ Styles is set to face Seth Rollins for the Universal Championship. It’s seemingly being billed as a "dream match." But is this the most interesting direction that WWE can lean into? Becky Lynch has not one, but TWO challengers for each of her titles at the next PPV. We’ll decide whether or not Becky should already lose her championships in her first major defense. And Kevin Owens did as Kevin Owens does and beat up Kofi Kingston to get his shot at the WWE Championship! Are we broken up about him never doing the New Day intro again or do we just miss the guttural tones from Big E? Main Event In the weeks since WrestleMania, several WWE stars have either left WWE or voiced discontentment with their position within the company. That includes Sasha Banks, Dean Ambrose and Luke Harper. We take a look at each of their situations and our reactions to the difficulties they’ve faced. Plus, with it being more possible than ever to be a truly independent wrestler or get signed by one of the many growing companies (including the popular AEW), will WWE have a harder time holding onto talent that’s either unhappy or lacking direction? Hosted by Hal Lublin, Danielle Radford, Lindsey Kelk, and Jo Graham. Produced by Julian Burrell for Maximum Fun. If you want to talk about more wrestling throughout the week be sure to join us on Facebook and @TightsFights on Twitter and Instagram. If you liked the show, please share it with your friends and be sure to leave us a quick review on Apple Podcasts or wherever you get podcasts.

Ratcatcher by Amy Griswold       1918, over Portsmouth The souls in the trap writhed and keened their displeasure as Xavier picked up the shattergun. “Don’t fuss,” he scolded them as he turned on the weapon and adjusted his goggles, shifting the earpieces so that the souls’ racket penetrated less piercingly through the bones behind his ears. “It’s nothing to do with you.” The two airships were docked already, a woman airman unfastening safety ropes from the gangplank propped between them to allow Xavier to cross. The trap rocked with a vibration that owed nothing to the swaying airships, and Xavier lifted it and tucked it firmly under his arm. He felt the soul imprisoned in his own chest stir, a straining reaction that made him stop for a moment to catch his breath.     Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 69 for April 4th, 2019. This is your host, Keffy, and I'm super excited to share this story with you. Our story today is "Ratcatcher" by Amy Griswold.  Before we get to the story, GlitterShip has recently had some exciting news. Our second anthology, GlitterShip Year Two was listed as a Tiptree Award Honor Book for 2018. We're very happy that the Tiptree jury enjoyed the book, and owe a great debt to all the authors who have allowed us to publish their work. You can find out more about the Tiptree Award and check out the winner Gabriela Damian Miravete's story, "They Will Dream in the Garden" at tiptree.org. You can also pick up copies of the GlitterShip Year One and Year Two anthologies on gumroad at gumroad.com/keffy for $5 each. Just use the coupon code "tiptree," that's t-i-p-t-r-e-e. Amy Griswold is the author of the interactive novels The Eagle’s Heir and Stronghold (with Jo Graham), published by Choice of Games, as well as the gay fantasy/mystery novels Death by Silver and A Death at the Dionysus Club (with Melissa Scott). Her short fiction has been published in markets including F&SF and Fantastic Stories of the Imagination. Robin G has been an entertainment manager, entertainer/vocalist, theatrical producer and writer of several pantomimes including a UV version of Pinocchio that toured 20 theaters in the UK. He was first alerted to the supernatural in a strange dream sequence while in the Royal Air Force that placed him at a future event. The knowledge that a part of our brain exists in another reality has shown him many unusual incidents of the sixth sense. He writes both fiction and non-fiction which includes Jim Long — space agent, a series of stand-alone stories in 7 books, including one as a radio episodic creation, and the non-fiction book Magical theory of life—discusses our life, history, and its aftermath in non-religious spiritual terms.     Ratcatcher by Amy Griswold       1918, over Portsmouth The souls in the trap writhed and keened their displeasure as Xavier picked up the shattergun. “Don’t fuss,” he scolded them as he turned on the weapon and adjusted his goggles, shifting the earpieces so that the souls’ racket penetrated less piercingly through the bones behind his ears. “It’s nothing to do with you.” The two airships were docked already, a woman airman unfastening safety ropes from the gangplank propped between them to allow Xavier to cross. The trap rocked with a vibration that owed nothing to the swaying airships, and Xavier lifted it and tucked it firmly under his arm. He felt the soul imprisoned in his own chest stir, a straining reaction that made him stop for a moment to catch his breath. “If you’re ready, sir,” the airman said, and Xavier forced himself into motion. He nodded crisply and strode out onto the gangplank with the ease of long years spent aboard ships, his gloved hand just brushing the rail. He scrambled down from the other end and got out of the way of airmen rushing to disengage the gangplank and close the hatch before the two ships could batter at each other too dangerously in the rising wind. The Coriolanus’s captain strode toward him, and Xavier winced as he recognized a familiar face. He set the trap down, both to get it farther away from the casing that housed the soul in his chest, and to give himself a moment to banish all envy from his expression. He straightened with a smile. “Hedrick. I see you landed on your feet after that muddle over Calais.” “I’ve got a knee that tells me the weather now,” Hedrick said, scrubbing at his not-entirely-regulation stubble of ginger beard. “They told me you’d been grounded.” “I’m still attached to the extraction service,” Xavier said. “As a civilian now.” Hedrick’s eyes flickered to the odd lines of Xavier’s coat front, and then back up to his face without a change of expression. He’d always been good at keeping a straight face at cards. “We could use the help. We had a knock-down drag-out with the Huns a few weeks back—just shy of six weeks, I make it. Heavy casualties on both sides, and some of them damned reluctant to move on.” “Only six weeks? You hardly need me. Chances are they’ll still depart on their own.” “You haven’t seen the latest orders that came down, then. We’re supposed to call in the ratcatchers at the first sight of ghosts. Not acceptable on a well-run ship, don’t you know.” “You’re also meant to shave,” Xavier said. “It’s not like you to comply with every absurd directive that comes down the pike.” He couldn’t help reveling in the freedom to talk that way, one of the few rewards of his enforced change in career. “These are Colonel Morrow’s orders.” “Mmm.” That put a different face on it, or might. Morrow supervised the ratcatchers, civilian and military, and his technical brilliance had saved Xavier’s life when he lost his soul. That said, it was entirely in character for Morrow to go on a tear about efficiency without regard for how much work it made for anyone else. “Besides, there’s more to it,” Hedrick said as the Coriolanus drifted free of the Exeter. “We’ve been having damned bad luck of late. Pins slipping out of a gangplank just as one of the lads stepped on it—he just missed ending up a smear on the landscape. More engine malfunctions than you can name, and some of them dangerous. If the Coriolanus weren’t in such good repair to start with, she’d have burned twice over in the last month.” “You suspect sabotage.” “Some of the Jerries had their boots on our deck when they bit it. We tossed the bodies over the side, but still I’m not entirely easy in my mind.” “Next time, don’t,” Xavier said. “The soul’s more likely to stay in the corpse if it’s well treated. Ill handling breaks the ties faster.” He directed his gaze out the porthole window of the gondola rather than at Hedrick’s face. “You weren’t using shatterguns?” “We haven’t got them mounted. No budget for them in our grade, I hear. And just as well if you ask me. They give me the cold chills.” Hedrick glanced at the shattergun under Xavier’s arm. “A necessity in my profession,” he said. “Better you than me.” It was a backhanded enough kind of sympathy that Xavier didn’t cringe away from it. “Any particular area of the ship most affected?” “The crew quarters, I think—I’ve had men stirring up their whole deck with screaming nightmares, and not the usual nervous cases.” “At least it’s a place to start.” He followed Hedrick through the narrow corridors of the airship’s gondola to the cramped berthing area that housed the enlisted men. Only the night watch was there and sleeping, young men squeezed into claustrophobically low bunks, some with their knees tucked up to keep their feet from dangling off the end. A panel of canvas made a half-hearted divider screening the row of women’s bunks from the men’s view. Xavier set down his gear and stretched out on the nearest unoccupied bunk. “Leave me alone, now, and let me work.” “Funny kind of work,” Hedrick said, raising an eyebrow at his recumbent form. “‘They also serve who only stand and wait,’” Xavier said, and tried not to sound bitter. “Now get out.” He closed his eyes at the sound of Hedrick’s retreating footsteps and schooled his breathing into the steady rhythm that would send him swiftly into a doze. The soul in his chest shifted once, making him break his rhythmic breathing with a gasping cough, but he spread an entreating hand across its cage and it quieted. He knew he was dreaming when he saw Thomas walk into the room and sit down on the foot of the bed. For a moment the more rational part of his mind protested that it was impossible to sit down on the foot of an airship bunk, but his dreaming mind obligingly replaced the scene with a four-poster bed lit by streaming sunshine. Thomas’s hair was limned with gold, his eyes bright and laughing. “Haven’t you got work to do?” He was dressed in the uniform he died in, but as Xavier took his hand, it faded like smoke to reveal freckled skin. “I do,” Xavier said. “I’m most remiss.” He raised his chin unrepentantly, and Thomas grappled for him like a wrestler. He was aware of reality as soon as they touched, the sensation of Thomas’s soul writhing through Xavier’s body painfully erotic but nothing remotely like physical sex. He heard himself gasp, unsure whether he’d actually made a sound the sleeping airmen could hear, and realized how genuinely unwise this was. He pushed Thomas away, and the other man’s soul retreated, dissolving into curling smoke, and then retreated too far, tugging away in unstoppable reflex. It felt like someone was pulling a rib out of his chest. “Thomas—” The smoke resolved itself for a moment into the golden-haired man, his face contorted. “I’m trying to stop,” he said. His shape exploded into smoke again, and twisted almost free of Xavier’s chest, leaving Xavier unable to draw a breath for long enough that his vision darkened. Then Thomas was back, sprawled against Xavier’s side as if in the exhausted aftermath of love. “Christ, that hurt,” Thomas said. “Like trying to hold onto a hot iron.” “You know it will only get worse.” “And so what’s the point in talking about it?” The image of Thomas appeared to stand, now pressed and correct in his airman’s uniform, looking around the dim barracks-room. His soul lay quiet in Xavier’s chest, a weight that eased its lingering ache. “We still have a job to do.” “So we do.” “There have been ghosts here,” Thomas said. “Two, I think. I’d look in the engine room if I were you.” He turned, frowning. “And don’t lay aside your gun. At least one of them is in a dangerous mood.”   In the engine room, the thumping of the steam engines pulsed through Xavier’s bones, and the heat coming off every surface beat against his skin. Through his goggles he could see wisps of what looked like steam but were really the lingering traces of the dead, men and women who had died in the recent battle. Not ghosts but something more like bloodstains. He turned a circle, looking for a more solid form, and settled the goggles’ earpieces more firmly against the bones behind his ears. A hundred sounds were familiar, the cacophony of airship travel he’d long ago learned to drown out. Under them was the faintest of animal noises, a tuneless moaning. He took a step toward it, and then another. A rattling on the other side of the engine room distracted him, and he turned. A connecting rod was flailing free, its pin out and the mechanism it served shuddering with the interrupted rhythm. He crossed the deck swiftly, keeping his head lifted as if watching the loose rod, but his eyes fixed on the deck. He caught the movement and stopped short as a hatch swung open in front of him, steam rising from the gaping space he had been intended to step into. “A creditable try,” he said. “Pity I’ve seen these tricks before.” He raised his shattergun, keeping his expression calm despite his awareness of his danger. A ghost could only move small objects, but here there might be a hundred small objects that could release steam or poison fumes or heavy weights if moved. “Why don’t you go in the trap like a good lad?” he said, putting the trap down on a section of deck that he made sure was solid. “This is the end of the road, you know.” Silence greeted him. He turned a slow circle, raising the shattergun. “You’re dead,” he said. “Stone cold dead. Your corpse is sinking to the bottom of the Channel or spattered across some unfortunate farmer’s hayfield. All that remains for you is to let go your precarious grip on this plane of existence and go to whatever awaits you.” There was no answer. “Or I can shoot you with this shattergun and destroy your soul. Would you like that better?” He heard the moaning again, rising to a ragged wail like a child’s crying. He took cautious steps toward it, aware of every rattle in the machinery around him. A wisp of smoke was curled up in a niche between the steel curves of two large engines, wailing forlornly. He raised the shattergun, and the smoke solidified into a dark-haired shape in an English airman’s uniform. It was a woman, and when she raised her head, he could see from the jagged ruin of one side of her skull that she’d met her end in an abrupt collision with some blunt object. “Don’t shoot me!” He lowered the shattergun cautiously. “I would far rather not.” “I don’t want to be dead,” she said. “I’m still here, I’m still here—” “You died weeks ago,” Xavier said. Six weeks ago, assuming she was a casualty of the most recent skirmish. “Your body is miles away and decomposing. You are dead, and the sooner you grasp that, the sooner you can move on.” “I won’t go in that thing.” “You will,” Xavier said briskly, knowing gentleness would be no mercy now. “The trap will confine you painlessly while I remove you from the site of your death.” He hefted the shattergun, but left the safety on. “Or I destroy your soul. That, I promise you, will hurt.” “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, lifting a stubborn chin. It took stubbornness to be a woman in the service. “There’s been sabotage.” “It wasn’t me.” “No, I don’t think it was,” he said. He was watching her face, and he saw her eyes move past him, fixing on something behind his shoulder. She cried out, but he was already moving, and threw himself to the deck as a blast of superheated steam singed the back of his neck. Steam swam in front of his eyes, and something darker within it: a second ghost, and one that was up to no good. He pushed himself up to one elbow and reached out with his gloved hand, thrusting its mesh of wiring into the yielding substance of the new ghost and then clenching his fist. The ghost was a chill weight as he began drawing his hand back toward the trap. He had expected it to be too clever to be caught so easily. There was no resistance. He understood why a moment too late as the ghost rushed toward him, and then into him, reaching for Xavier’s heart. Clever after all, he had time to think, before the sensation of being hollowed out from the inside sent him plunging into shellshock-vivid memory, a predictable and yet unavoidable descent—   —Xavier ducked under the web of grappling lines that bound the two ships together and fired between them, flattening himself against the remains of the breached gondola wall to reload. Through his goggles, he could see souls curling up out of the bodies that littered the deck, drifting free or swirling in snakelike muddled circles as if seeking a way back in. The wind screamed. He reached down with his gloved hand to yank the nearest circling soul firmly free from its body, and held it flailing in his fist. He found his trap with the other hand, or what remained of it, shattered fragments. He shoved the soul at them anyway, but it wouldn’t go in. “Never mind the sodding dead!” someone shouted, firing from beside him, but the only certainty he had in a world full of flying debris and blood was that the souls needed to come out of the corpses, extracted like rotten teeth. He raised his head, and saw the shattergun pointed at him from across the narrow gap between the ships. He flung himself to one side, and the blast caught him on the side of the chest rather than between the eyes. I’m still here, he thought, I’m still here, and then saw the curling smoke trailing away from his chest like a ragged cloud torn apart by the wind. His breath caught in his chest, and then stopped, like something he’d forgotten how to do a long time ago. He didn’t breathe, but he still moved, crushing the soul in his fist against his chest, reaching out mechanically for the remains of the trap, pressing it to his chest, then pressing harder. Harder, until the glass cut through skin and flesh, trapping the soul coiled half in, half out of his chest. Harder, until he bled, and breathed—   —He gasped for breath, and he was in the hospital ward, with Morrow sitting in a straight-backed chair at the foot of the bed, a look of interest on his stubbled face. “You know, it never occurred to me to try what you did. Not that it would have worked for long.” Xavier looked down, and saw an alien construction of glass and metal wrapped around his chest, smoke swirling in its depths and an electric buzz humming against his skin. He breathed, trying not to gasp like a drowning swimmer. Each breath came more predictably than the last, but not more easily. “I built you a more stable housing for your passenger,” Morrow said. “Tell me, what is it like? Having someone else’s soul animating your body?” He leaned forward eagerly, chin rested on his fist. “Who is he?” “Corporal Thomas Carlisle. Now unfortunately deceased. His service record is brief and unenlightening. You haven’t answered my question.” “I’m alive,” Xavier said, but he had seen his soul shattered. Had felt himself dying. He reached up with one shaky hand and spread his fingers across the warm metal. Someone else was there as well, holding on to the inside of his chest as if wrapping desperate fingers around his ribs, determined not to let go—   His head snapped back and he tasted blood as Thomas’s shadowy form erupted from his chest, thrusting the invading ghost out with him and holding it at arm’s length. “Possessive, are you?” Xavier managed, reaching blindly for the trap and finding it thankfully intact. He maneuvered it closer to where the ghost was writhing in Thomas’s grip, trying to ignore the warning ache in his chest. “You know it.” The German ghost was solid enough now for Xavier to see his uniform and the grim set of his jaw as he fought Thomas’s grasp. Xavier’s thumb slipped clumsily off the trap’s trigger the first time he tried it, and then slipped again. The increasing pain was becoming a problem. Finally he hit it solidly, and watched in satisfaction as the ghost became a rushing fog that swirled into the trap and disappeared. His vision blurred, and he realized he hadn’t breathed in some time. He spread one hand in warning, and felt the soul rush back into his chest, its grip tightening, but still not as firm as it had been even a few hours before. Xavier spread his hand across the soul cage, a habitual gesture that still brought irrational comfort. Not much time. But enough to finish the business at hand. “Your turn, now,” he said to the English airman’s ghost, as lightly as he could manage. “Don’t dawdle, we haven’t got all day.” She slipped down from her perch and approached the trap, hanging back a healthy distance from its electric hum. “What happens after this?” “There’s an air base in Manchester where we’ll empty the traps. It’s far enough from where you died that you’ll have no trouble moving on.” And considerable trouble doing anything else, with no death energies to give her a grip on the world of the living. “I mean...what happens after that? Where do we go?” “I’m not going to find out,” he said. She met his eyes, something like sympathy kindling in her expression, bearable from someone already dead. “I am sorry,” she said, and then bolted away from the trap. He already had his gloved hand out to catch her. “So am I,” he said, and crammed her ghost into the mouth of the trap, thumbing the switch to suck the swirl of angry fog inside. Footsteps clattered on the metal decking, and an engineer stuck his head in, probably in answer to alarms from whatever essential piece of machinery the German ghost had employed in his attempt to kill Xavier. “What’s all this?” “Tell the captain I’ve taken care of his pest problem,” Xavier said. “And that he can drop me in Manchester. I’m going to sleep until then.”   The moment he closed his eyes he could feel Thomas lying beside him, as if they were ordinary lovers indulging in a late morning lie-in. “You could be wrong,” Thomas said. “I think my clock keeps good time.” Even in the dream, he could feel the ache in his chest, his hands and feet cold. “I hear Gottlieb thinks that the shattergun doesn’t really destroy the soul, just keeps it from being able to manifest as a ghost.” “Gottlieb is a German.” “Does that make him wrong?” “Morrow thinks his work is fundamentally unsound.” “For Christ’s sake.” “Morrow has occasionally been wrong,” Xavier said, but he couldn’t believe the world was fundamentally merciful enough for any part of him to survive when the link between Thomas’s soul and his body rotted away. They would put him in the ground, and that would be the end. “How long?” Thomas asked finally, his voice more even. “Your guess is as good as mine.” “You’re the ratcatcher. I was just an ordinary aviator. Blow those men down for king and country, yes, sir.” Thomas saluted jauntily, rolling away from Xavier in bed to do it. The ache in his chest worsened, and he ignored it. “A day or two, I should think. Time enough to report to Morrow and offload these poor sods.” “Maybe Morrow can do something.” “We’ve discussed the problem. He hasn’t been optimistic.” Morrow’s soul cage had lasted for months longer than Xavier’s own bloody improvisation would have, but it was still failing, the link between Thomas’s soul and its electric cage fraying faster every hour. “A day or two,” Thomas said. “Yes.” Xavier was certain it wouldn’t be two. He slept until Hedrick shook his bunk to wake him. “Manchester,” Hedrick said. “Come on, sleeping beauty.” “It’s a harder job than you’d think,” Xavier said, following Hedrick up to the observation deck to debark. “Or would you like me to put them back and you can have a go at rounding them up? You were right, by the way. One of them was a Jerry, and up to considerable mischief.” “I suppose that’s patriotic, by his lights,” Hedrick said. “But I’ll tell you this, if I die up here, I’ll go quiet as a little lamb. No more fighting for me. I’ve had my share and that’s a fact.” He clapped Xavier on the shoulder. “Next time I’m in Manchester I’ll stand you a drink.” “Have one for me,” Xavier said, and stepped onto the waiting gangplank.   The air base towered above Manchester, an iron tree twenty stories high with jutting piers and thrumming generators that made the floor gratings shudder under Xavier’s feet. Morrow met Xavier on the pier. “Good news,” he said, falling in beside Xavier as he walked. “I think I have a solution to your problem.” “You said it was insoluble.” Hope rose unbidden in his throat, a hard knot that he swallowed down ruthlessly. “I’ve worked out a technical solution. A side application, actually, of another process. Not that way,” he said, as Xavier turned toward the end of the pier, eager now to release the souls in his care and free himself to find out what Morrow had concocted. “Bring the trap down with you.” Xavier frowned, but followed Morrow to the lift cage. It clattered downward, descending through a hell of industrial machinery past levels that bustled with airmen and engineers down to the quieter cargo bays. The lift stopped on the ground floor, generally deserted except when shipments of raw materials were brought in by truck. Bare electric lights swayed overhead, casting harsh shadows. “You have no idea how much we all owe you,” Morrow said as Xavier followed him out of the lift. “What we’ve learned about how to maintain a ghost’s link to physical objects—it’s invaluable.” “You mean physical objects like my body,” Xavier said. His chest was aching again, Thomas’s soul stirring uneasily in its housing. He wished Morrow would get on with it and either offer up whatever fix might help him or stop holding out hope. “Incidentally. Not most importantly.” Morrow had been leading him through the shadowy bay toward the heavy bulks of vehicles, and stopped now with his hand caressing the hard lines of a tank. Its turret swiveled toward Xavier, and he froze in momentary alarm. “There’s no danger, its guns aren’t loaded.” “I didn’t think these things were radio-controlled.” “They’re not.” Morrow drew a bulky pistol from his coat pocket that Xavier realized after a moment’s examination was a shattergun, though a smaller model than any he’d seen before. “Can’t you see it?” Thomas’s soul was writhing in alarm, and Xavier squinted at the tank, adjusting his goggles. When he turned them up to maximum sensitivity he could see the curl of smoke at the tank’s heart, swirling in tight unhappy circles and then battering itself against the walls of an invisible cage before returning to its circling. “It’s haunted,” Xavier said. “Inhabited,” Morrow said. “By a ghost with the power to control it without risking any living men.” His eyes were alight. “The next step in modern warfare.” “Its occupant doesn’t seem very pleased.” “They never like being in a trap. Surely you’ve learned that as a ratcatcher. There’s a certain discomfort involved in being bound into something other than a living body.” By discomfort Morrow generally meant excruciating pain. “How long can you keep it there?” “Indefinitely. Which provides a solution to your own problem, by the way.” He extracted a glowing puzzle-box of glass and metal from his pocket, something like the central cage within the maze of glass and wiring on Xavier’s chest. “But this is the real promise of it. There won’t be any more need for our men to leave the service just because they’re dead. No more excuses for desertion.” “I wouldn’t call it desertion.” “Retreating from the field,” Morrow said. “Going to their rest. Well, no one’s resting until this war is over.” The glitter in his eyes suggested that it had been long since he slept himself. “As long as it’s voluntary.” “Of course it’s voluntary.” Morrow brandished the shattergun and bared his teeth. “So far they’ve all preferred it to the alternative.” “I see,” Xavier said. He was very aware of the weight of the trap under his arm, the souls within it only dimly aware, but moving restlessly in response to Thomas’s agitation. “One of these is a German,” he said. “Not good material for your purposes.” “There’s an easy cure for that,” Morrow said, thumbing the safety off the shattergun. “Of course.” He wondered how long it would take for the German high command to hear about this, and how fast the order would go out to destroy any English soul found haunting German battlefields. It couldn’t take much longer for Gottlieb or someone equally clever on the other side to replicate Morrow’s process and fill the battlefields with machines powered by the unquiet dead. His vision swam, and he gritted his teeth in mingled panic and frustration—not yet—before he realized that Thomas was pulling him down into a waking dream, appearing at his side overlaid on the shimmering forms of tanks. “The man in that tank was a gunnery sergeant,” Thomas said. “A good soldier. He’s in incredible pain, and Morrow threatens him with the shattergun whenever he makes a credible effort to tear himself free.” Xavier spread his hands in acknowledgement, but did not reply. Morrow was in no state to hear objections to his plan, and if he objected too strongly, Morrow had the life-saving soul cage to withhold from him. The hope Morrow had kindled beat in his throat, a desperate desire to live at any cost. All he had to do was accept. “We’re dead men anyway,” Thomas said. “So we are,” Xavier said, and opened the trap. The ghosts erupted out of the trap and streamed as one toward Morrow. Thomas followed them, striding forward, and Xavier staggered back, his chest burning. “Xavier,” Morrow said, disapproving but not afraid yet. “So clumsy of me,” Xavier said. He managed to take a breath, and then couldn’t remember how to take another one. Morrow pointed the shattergun at Thomas’s chest, and Xavier strained to move, but his limbs felt filled with lead. Morrow pulled the trigger, but the gun didn’t fire. The safety was engaged again, and clearly stuck fast as Morrow struggled to disengage it. Xavier could make out some individual forms within the roiling mass of souls, the faces of dead men and women, all painfully young. The soul of the woman airman hung back, reaching into the tank with both hands, tugging the ghost inside free of its metal bulk. Other ghostly hands were on the shattergun, twisting it in Morrow’s hand, pressing its muzzle toward his temple. Morrow tugged at the gun, and then fought for it, still looking more annoyed than afraid. For a moment Xavier met Thomas’s eyes. He knew he should shake his head, forbid murder, but he took refuge in the weariness that made shaking his head a Herculean task. The ghosts were moaning, now, a rising wail of single-minded purpose. Even without goggles, Morrow looked as if he could hear them now, or perhaps he only felt their chill as they swarmed him, writhing against his skin. “You’re all dead men,” Morrow said. There was acceptance in their voices. Their grip on this world was loosening, the pull of whatever lay beyond growing stronger by the second. Now, he mouthed in choking silence, and he saw Thomas nod, his eyes smiling. It seemed all right then to let his eyes close. He heard, rather than saw, the safety catch on the shattergun give, and as if from a long way away he heard it fire.   Time passed, and went on passing. He could feel hands inside his chest, holding desperately tight to his ribs, familiar and yet strange. The metal grating of the floor was cold against his cheek. He lifted his head. Hurry, someone urged. Xavier tried to stand, and failed. He crawled instead, inching his way toward Morrow’s still form. Morrow’s chest was moving shallowly, but his stare was sightless. He felt across the grating until he found the soul cage that had fallen from Morrow’s hand. It felt warm even through his glove. He tore open Morrow’s collar and pressed it to Morrow’s skin. Wires sprouted from it, burrowing into bare flesh. He felt a surge of envy, and the presence within him writhed in denial and anger, holding on tighter. Morrow opened his eyes. “Maybe not such dead men,” he said, the voice Morrow’s but the tone teasing and familiar. “Morrow?” “I expect I had better be.” “If you’re in there ...” Xavier spread his hand across the soul cage on his chest. “Airman Anna Lambert,” the woman airman said, as close as if she were sitting on his lap, not a position he’d ever been in with a woman. He could feel her amusement at that thought. “You’d better get used to it, since I don’t want to die and neither do you.” “Pleased to meet you.” “Such pretty manners, yet. I think we’ll do all right.” She retreated back into the soul cage, settling in like a cat turning round before curling into its basket. Morrow sat up cautiously, fingering the soul cage where it pulsed against his skin. “We need to find another one of these to house your passenger in the long term,” he said, and then frowned. “Unless he made only one?” “Morrow never made only one of anything.” Xavier looked around at the empty trap and the motionless tank. Souls still roiled within the others, aching to be ripped free. But first things first. “What are we going to say happened here?” “I don’t know what you mean,” Morrow said, looking at him with Thomas’s most level gaze. “I admit I’m not feeling...entirely myself. A touch of shell shock, maybe. Requiring a holiday from my work while I figure out what in blazes Morrow was doing here and how to give the impression I understand it.” “His mind is gone?” “Gone wherever shattered souls go. Gottlieb might still be right.” “I’m not going to weep for Morrow either way,” Xavier said. “I’m Morrow. You’d better keep that straight.” “A touch of shell shock myself,” Xavier said. “I don’t know what I was saying.” “Think nothing of it, old chap,” Morrow said, and turned to regard the tanks. “Gruesome things, aren’t they? I think we’ll be writing this off as a failed experiment.” “You mean that you’ll be writing it off,” Xavier said. “If you can transplant Lambert here into more permanent housing without accident—I expect Morrow left good notes—” “I devoutly hope so.” “Then I’ve got work to do in the field. This war won’t stop making ghosts.” He felt a twinge of loss at the thought of making those bloody rounds without Thomas curled under his breastbone, and told himself angrily not to be a fool. “Kiss him, for Christ’s sake,” Lambert said. “I would.” Xavier coughed, and Morrow looked at him in alarm. “My passenger has an unfortunate sense of humor,” he said by way of explanation. “That ought to suit you,” Morrow said. He looked as if he felt a certain degree of loss himself. It would have been madness to make any such gesture in the air base, but Xavier reached out and caught his hand, and Morrow held it, his rough fingers unfamiliar in Xavier’s own. “I’m still here,” Xavier said, and went on breathing.   END   "Ratcatcher" was originally published in Mothership Zeta and is copyright Amy Griswold, 2016. 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, leaving reviews on iTunes, or buying your own copy of the Summer 2018 issue at www.glittership.com/buy. You can also support us by picking up a free audiobook at  www.audibletrial.com/glittership. Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a GlitterShip original, "The Girl With All the Ghosts" by Alex Yuschik.  

My conversation with the amazing Jo Graham from How2Wrestling!

I've switched to a fortnightly episode schedule for a while, so it's a bonus episode with cohost of How2Wrestling Joanna Graham. Along the way, we discuss accessibility in wrestling commentary, the stress of knowing there's injury or death coming spanning pro wrestling and prime time network drama, and the terror of a poison rana.Follow Jo on Twitter at @thejoannagraham, follow the show at @TheMathOfYou, and my wacky adventures at @lokified. If you'd like to be a guest on the show, send an email to themathofyou@gmail.com. If you like the music on the show, go to bit.ly/TheMathOfYou See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

You wanted the best, you've got the best, because we're joined byHow2Wrestling's tremendous Jo Graham to discuss sexy pirate outfits, smart, sad horses, and love quadrangles, because that's what we've got when we've got Anne "Quinoa" Bishop's Daughter of the Blood. Light S&M, sexy vampires, sexier vampires, sexier still demons, and, at the center of it all, a girl who ages from 7 to 12, so it's safe to say that very strong content warnings apply. Recommendations: "re:memeber" -- Ólafur Arnalds Marie Antoinette Do Men Enter Bathtubs on Hands and Knees So Their Balls Hit the Water Last? The Wizard's First Rule, Terry Goodkind Music: "This Corrosion" by The Sisters of Mercy "Ride the Wind" by Poison "Hot Blooded" by Foreigner

What every caregiver and their loved ones should know about the caregiving journey

Mary Jo Graham, author of When He Sends Redbirds - August 19, 2018 by Caregiver SOS On Air

With Greg and Tommy once again out of commission, Callum made a call. He's joined this week by two guests, who you could call wrestling podcast royalty—Kefin Mahon and Jo Graham of the Attitude Era Podcast and How2Wrestling. The three discuss TNA, something Jo has had limited exposure to, a dire Extreme Rules pay-per-view, and the "redemption" of Hulk Hogan.

Listen to an exclusive interview with Jo Graham, Technology Director at Morrisons. Jo is the keynote speaker at WITBoss; an award-winning networking event for female leaders... Read more The post Women in tech – Confidence: If you don’t naturally make it, fake it appeared first on Corecom.

    Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode #53 for March 29, 2018. This is your host, Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing these stories with you. Today we have three GlitterShip originals for you: a poem, a piece of flash fiction, and a short story for you. The poem is "Cucumber" by Penny Stirling.   Penny Stirling edits and embroiders in Western Australia. Their speculative fiction and poetry can be found in Lackington's, Interfictions, Strange Horizons, Heiresses of Russ, Transcendent and other venues. For aroace discussion and bird photography, follow them at www.pennystirling.com or on Twitter @numbathyal. Cucumber   Penny Stirling     He lullabies my ghosts so I can sleep in, my life-compeer, my comrade-errant, and I risk griffin bite for his medicine. We don't kiss or act how a couple should and people enquire: when will we progress? Surely we've been just friends long enough.   We find tracking migrating dragons more wondrous than our hearts, entrusting each other's lives in combat more significant than vows, unearthing riddle-hid treasure before rivals more satisfying than sex; we are closer than quest-allies yet less physical than love-couples. But feelings outside romance have less import even if we are one another's most important. Just friends.   He doesn't care, he says. He never cares what allies or enemies say, he says. I say enough! My life-partner, my peril-mate, we are enough. But I just have had enough. My friend, please: matching rings, balance-enchanted. He doesn't care, either, congratulated for finally maturing enough.   We don't kiss or act how a couple should yet people don't enquire if we will progress. Being just spouse and spouse is enough.   END   Izzy Wasserstein teaches English at a midwestern university, writes poetry and fiction, and shares a house with several animal companions and the writer Nora E. Derrington. Her work has recently appeared in or is forthcoming from Clarkesworld, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Pseudopod and elsewhere. She is an enthusiastic member of the 2017 class of Clarion West. She likes to slowly run long distances. Her website is izzywasserstein.com Ports of Perceptions   Izzy Wasserstein       Chase had come down with both kind of viruses, and worried Hunter had been growing distant, so Hunter suggested they indulge in some PKD. While the drug kicked in, they sprawled on the mattress in Hunter’s flat and exchanged. Hunter’s arm-ports synched with the receivers on Chase’s back and data flowed between them, which they agreed was worth the risk, despite Chase’s cold and the v0x virus still being rooted out by antivi. Chase felt Hunter’s concern turn to desire, and they explored each other and the PKD. Chase unclasped each of their right forearms, then swapped them. Hunter’s arm, which was, or had been, or would be Chase’s, moved over their bodies. They disconnected Hunter’s not-quite-legal sensory enhancer and synched it with Chase’s, and the rush was like data exchange but more immediate, more vivid. They swapped more parts as the sensory loop built between them. Soon Chase cried out for release, but Hunter let anticipation build, feeling Chase’s rising desire, which was Hunter’s. The drug worked on their flesh, their firmware, their coil of tech and limbs; it bypassed the neurons that told Chase which body was Chase’s, which Hunter’s, that told Hunter where Hunter ended and the Universe began; and so they grew into each other, their bodies and consciousnesses spreading from their node across the web. They were together. They were everywhere. When finally they collapsed and held one another, Chase said Hunter’s name, or Hunter said Chase’s, or each said their own. They lay in the tangle of each other, and Chase was Hunter and Hunter’s thoughts were Chase’s, and neither was sure where they ended and reality began. Hunter caught Chase’s cold, or had always had it, or had always been Chase. Neither cared, if indeed they had ever been separate. END Amy Griswold is the author (with Melissa Scott) of Death by Silver (winner of the Lambda Literary Award) and A Death at the Dionysus Club, fantasy/mystery novels set in an alternate Victorian England. Her interactive novel The Eagle's Heir (with Jo Graham) was published in 2017, and their second interactive novel Stronghold, a heroic fantasy game about defending a town and building a community, is forthcoming in 2018. The Questing Beast   Amy Griswold       The first time Sir Palamedes is tempted to give up pursuing the Questing Beast, he is tramping through the woods on a bleak winter day, his frosty breath hanging in a white cloud each time he exhales.  His feet are sore, and his shoes are worn thin.  His horse went lame a week ago, and is returning home in the uncertain care of Palamedes' squire.  Palamedes is following the sound of distant barking, and is beginning to think the sound will drive him mad. He is far off any beaten track, although he can see the prints of men and horses frozen into the icy turf.  They might have been following the Questing Beast themselves, overcome with wonder at a sight that Palamedes is beginning to find commonplace.  Or they might have been about some other errand entirely.  They might even now be sipping mulled wine by a warm fire at home, rather than tramping through the woods after an abominable beast. The trees are thinning, and through them Palamedes can see the rutted track of a road.  It will be easier walking, and surely he can pick up the trail of the Beast again later.  Nothing else leaves such tracks, shaped like the hoofprints of a deer but dug deep into the turf under its monstrous weight.  Nothing else makes such a clamor, like a pack of hounds gone mad with no answering music of horns. He smells smoke before he sees the little camp by the side of the road. A horse is picketed and cropping at the thin brown grass, and a man is warming his hands over the fire.  His shield is propped against a log, and it is by the arms more than by his travel-dirtied face that Palamedes knows him: Sir Tristan, who swore to kill Palamedes when they last met. They have been sworn enemies for years, for reasons that begin to seem increasingly absurd. Once when Palamedes was a light-hearted youth, Iseult the Fair smiled at him, and he supposes that explains why he and Tristan must be enemies, even though Iseult has long since wedded Mark of Cornwall in obedience to her duty.  He suspects that competing for a lady's adulterous favors is less than the true spirit of chivalry. And yet he pauses, thinking of Iseult with sunlight on her hair, her face tipped up to him as she asked him curiously about distant Babylon which he will never see again.  She did not scorn him for keeping faith with the gods of his childhood.  Perhaps she would never have married a pagan, but there can be no question of marriage, now.  If Tristan fell, and he were there to bring her the comfort she would not seek in her unloving husband's arms … But these are unworthy thoughts.  If he steps out of the woods and declares himself, it will be to meet Tristan in battle as Tristan has long desired.  Tristan looks cold and drawn, clearly the worse for his travels, but surely no more so than Palamedes himself.  Tristan has been riding, not walking, his heavy cloak not frayed to shreds and his boots not worn parchment-thin.  It would be a fair fight, surely. The sound of hounds baying rises over the woods, a wild familiar clamor.  Tristan lifts his head, gazes into the trees for a moment, and then turns back to warming his hands, like a man too weary to think wonders any of his concern. Palamedes turns and sees the Questing Beast through the trees, distant but clear, its serpent's neck outstretched, its heavy leopard's body, from which the barking of hounds perpetually sounds, crouching balanced on its cloven hooves.  The beast itself is mute, no sound coming from its throat even when it opens its mouth as if to taste the air. The voice that whispers in his head is an older one, the goddess of his childhood, Anahita-of-the-beasts.  Or perhaps there is no voice at all, only the familiar sound of his own thoughts, his only companion on his long road. Will you keep faith with him, or with your oath? it asks. He swore to follow the Beast, and not only at his leisure.  Palamedes turns his back on the fire, the fight, and the ease of following the road, and follows the Questing Beast, quickening his steps as the Beast begins to run.   The second time Sir Palamedes is tempted to stop pursuing the Questing Beast, he is riding down a well-traveled road on a warm summer evening.  He has met with many travelers, and answered their courteous inquiries with the tale of his quest, which is becoming wearisome to tell. Most of them look at him as if he is mad, which is not entirely out of the question. The tracks of the Beast are dug deep into the mud beside the road, and he does not fear losing its trail, though it must be a day or more ahead of him.  It will sleep, for the night, and so must he.  He turns his horse's head from the road into a meadow beside a running stream.  Another traveler is camped there already, and as Palamedes dismounts he prepares to tell his story once again. Tristan emerges from his tent, stops as he recognizes Palamedes, and stands staring, apparently at a loss for words.  He looks well-fed and well-rested this time, and certainly fit for a duel. But it feels a bit ridiculous at this point to call themselves mortal enemies, having rescued each other from perils that interfered with their duel to the death so many times that it’s clear neither of them relishes having the duel at all. "Well met, Sir Tristan," he says.  "May I share your camp, or must we settle our differences on the field of arms first?" "I expect it can wait until morning," Tristan says.  "Sit and have some dinner." They share a roasted grouse and sit chewing over the bones as the stars come out. "You've never told me how you came to hunt the Questing Beast," Tristan says. He supposes he hasn't, although it feels as if he's told the tale to everyone in England.  "Sir Pellinore was growing old," he says.  "But he said he couldn't lay down his charge until there was a man willing to take it up, and he wouldn't lay such a thing on his sons." "So he laid it on you?  That seems sharp dealing." "I offered to do it," Palamedes says.  "And I suppose he thought as a stranger to these shores I wouldn't be leaving a home and responsibilities behind."  He shrugs.  "I don't regret it." "You've had little chance of winning a lady this way, though," Tristan says, as close as Palamedes thinks they will come to speaking of Iseult.  He wonders how many years it has been since Tristan has seen her.  "Surely that must come hard." "One hardly misses what one has never had," Palamedes says.  The memory of Iseult is a distant dream.  The reality is this, the road, the quest, and the sometime company of other knights who are willing to go some distance down his unending road at his side.  "If I have been deprived of the favors of fair ladies, I have had the friendship of the most gallant of knights." "I hope you count me among them," Tristan says, and Palamedes does, although he is aware they still might end by shedding each other's blood on the thirsty earth. "I would be honored," he says, and reaches out a hand to clasp Tristan's.  The other man's hand is rough and warm in his, the pulse beating hard under the skin.  It is a warm night full of possibilities.  He pulls Tristan toward him for a kiss he does not intend as brotherly. Tristan turns his head, and it ends up a brotherly salute after all.  "You know I am a Christian knight," he says.  Palamedes spreads his hands to grant that Tristan's god may be more forgiving of adultery than of other sins of the flesh.  The blood is high in Tristan's cheeks all the same, his eyes intent.  "If you were a Christian as well …" Palamedes breathes a laugh.  "Then you would feel it justified?" "Well so, if it brought you to Christ." It is a high-handed offer, and a perverse one, and still for a moment tempting.  Of all men, there are few he respects as much as Tristan, and few whose company he desires as much.  "And would you then bear me company on my quest?" "I think you would find if you accepted baptism that there were other quests more worth the pursuing," Tristan says.  "Whether the Grail or the peace of a Christian marriage and a family."  There is wistfulness in his voice when he speaks of such comforts, which certainly Tristan has never had himself. For a moment Palamedes is tempted himself to agree.  He does not regret his quest, it is true, but it is growing ever difficult to remember why it matters.  Friendship and ease would surely be worth putting himself in the bleeding hands of the Christian god. There is a breath of noise that might be the murmuring of the brook, but he knows it for the distant sound of hounds barking, barely a whisper on the wind. Are you his or mine? a voice says in the quiet of his heart, the warm implacable voice of Anahita-of-the-winds with her outstretched hands. "I can only be as I am," Palamedes says, and stands.  "And I have tarried here too long.  If I ride through the night, I can at least get closer to my quarry."  He bows to Tristan.  "We can fight next time we meet." "I will look forward to it," Tristan says quite courteously, and Palamedes swings himself up to the saddle and turns his horse's head into the darkness.   The third time Palamedes is tempted to stop pursuing the Questing Beast, he dismounts to drink at a forest stream in a crisp autumn, and raises his head to see the Questing Beast on the other side of the stream, its head bent to the water. It is silent while drinking, as if the water calms the maddened hounds who howl from its belly.  Palamedes reaches silently for the bow hung from his saddle, and fits an arrow to the string.  He draws it back, aiming for the Beast's heart.  One clean shot will bring it down, and end his quest forever. The Beast's eyes are closed as if in pleasure at the taste of the cool water.  Its sinuous neck lowers, and it settles down on its haunches, resting in the mossy bank.  It must be an effort to support that bulk on ill-fitted hooves, and to sleep with the noise of baying eternally in its own ears. It is the child of a human woman, or so Pellinore told him, the child of a liar who lusted after her own brother and lay with a demon to win him.  It will never have a mate or a home.  He thinks for a moment that he knows how it must feel. But Palamedes has friends he has loved well, and the satisfaction of having mended a hundred small hurts while on the road: he has fought monsters and found lost sheep, brought stray children back to their mothers and jousted with menacing giants.  The road has been more a reward to him than a punishment.  He wonders which it is for the Beast, and knows that he will never know. Palamedes puts down the bow and stoops to fill his cupped hands with water.  The Beast startles at the movement, raising its serpentine head and staring at him with its unblinking eyes, its whole body poised for flight. He holds out his hands to it, and the Beast takes one step into the water, and then another, and then lowers its head to drink.  Its flickering tongue is warm.  It stands quietly, trusting, and Palamedes knows that this is a wonder no other man has seen before him. Would the Grail be better? a voice asks, the teasing voice of Anahita-of-the-waters. "You know it would not," he says aloud.  The Beast raises its head sharply at the sound, the clamor of barking beginning again.  It whips its bulk around and springs away, the barking retreating through the underbrush. Palamedes bends to drink, and then mounts his horse again, turning its head toward the sound of baying hounds.  It is a long afternoon's pursuit through the cool clear autumn air, the leaves turning to all the colors of a tapestry lit by dancing flames. The trees thin at the edge of the wood, and when he comes out onto the road, he is somehow unsurprised to see a familiar knight riding under a familiar banner.  Tristan's face is set in lines of frustration, and Palamedes supposes that he has been trying to persuade Iseult to run away with him again, as suitably impossible a quest as any. "Well met, Sir Tristan," he says, falling in beside him on the road.  "May I ride a little ways with you, or must we stop to have our battle?" "We might ride on a little ways beforehand," Tristan says.  He smiles, and some few of his cares seem to lift from him.  "Have you given more thought to baptism since last we met?  It seems to me you were undecided when we spoke before." "I was not, and I am not," Palamedes says.  "But you may go on trying to persuade me."  He spurs his horse on to a faster walk, knowing soon enough he will have to turn away from the road toward the sound of distant baying.  But for now he has a good road underfoot, and on such a fine day, he cannot think of any road he would rather be traveling.   END “Cucumber” is copyright Penny Stirling 2018. "Ports of Perceptions" is copyright Izzy Wasserstein 2018. "The Questing Beast" is copyright Amy Griswold 2018. 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 reprint.

Episode 25 of the podcast features an interview with Sundi Jo Graham. Sundi Jo is an author and blogger, and is the founder of a ministry called Esther's House of Redemption, which is a faith-based residential discipleship program, located in rural Missouri, offering hope to broken women. They serve women from all backgrounds, ages 18+, who struggle with life-controlling issues, such as alcohol and drug addictions, depression, self-harm, the aftermath of physical and sexual abuse, and more.You'd think this episode might be super-heavy, but Sundi Jo is great at tackling big issues with grace, kindness, and simplicity.Some of What We Talk About:Why forgive and forget doesn't work.Forgiveness is a big part of healing.The importance of actually facing your brokennessForgiveness is not a one-time thingAsking God to be your KeeperThe importance of reading the Bible and PrayerCounselling matters, friendship mattersWhy thinking we're okay on our own is pridefulMorning routines: coffee and scriptureJournallingListening to music as a spiritual practiceHaving a better sleep routineSetting goalsLinks and Resources:Sundi Jo's WebsiteEsther's House of RedemptionDear Dad: Did You Know I Was a Princess by Sundi Jo GrahamGraham CookeBethel Radio on Pandora Join others in contributing financially to help pay for hosting and equipment costs.  Follow Matthew Brough on Social Media:TwitterFacebookInstagram This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mattbrough.substack.com

Episode 42 is part of the Spring 2017 issue! Support GlitterShip by picking up your copy here: http://www.glittership.com/buy/   The Passing Bell by Amy Griswold   My hired horse threw a shoe between Bristol and Bath, and by the time the wearying business of getting another nailed on was complete the shadows were growing long and the wind was sharpening its knives.  “It’s kind of you to put me up,” I said, jingling pennies in my pocket to encourage such generosity.  In a town so small it had neither pub nor inn, I considered myself fortunate to be offered the chance to sleep in the blacksmith’s loft.      Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip. This is your host, Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing this story with you. Our story for today is "The Passing Bell" by Amy Griswold. Amy Griswold is the author (with Melissa Scott) of DEATH BY SILVER and A DEATH AT THE DIONYSUS CLUB from Lethe Press. Her most recent work (with Jo Graham) is the interactive novel THE EAGLE'S HEIR from Choice of Games. She lives in North Carolina, where she writes standardized tests as well as fiction, and tries not to confuse the two.     The Passing Bell by Amy Griswold   My hired horse threw a shoe between Bristol and Bath, and by the time the wearying business of getting another nailed on was complete the shadows were growing long and the wind was sharpening its knives.  “It’s kind of you to put me up,” I said, jingling pennies in my pocket to encourage such generosity.  In a town so small it had neither pub nor inn, I considered myself fortunate to be offered the chance to sleep in the blacksmith’s loft.  “Glad to, if you’ve got the coin,” the blacksmith said.  “Only the missus is particular in her way about knowing something about strangers who are going to sleep under her roof.  What’s your name, and what’s your age, and what’s your trade, good man?  For she’ll ask me all three.”  “Rob Tar is my name, and my age is twenty and six,” I said.  “And I’m an able seaman aboard the Red Boar out of Bristol.  My girl Minnie lives in Bath, and I’m on my way to keep her company a while until we sail again.  I’ve never claimed to be a good man, but I’ll be no trouble to you, and I can pay you for supper and bed."  In fact I had three months’ pay, most of it stuffed down my shirt to pose less temptation to thieves.  “Will that satisfy your lady?” “It should,” Mister Smith said, with a sheepish sort of shuffle that would have looked more at home on a boy than a big man with biceps like hams.  “You understand, she’s a particular sort of woman.”  He seemed to notice for the first time that his dogs were circling me suspiciously, as if waiting for the cue to set their teeth into an intruder.  “Get by, dogs, we’ve a guest tonight.” He led me into a kitchen where a warm fire was glowing and went aside to speak with the presumed mistress of the house, a young wife but hardly a merry one, her dun hair matching her dun dress so that she looked faded, as if washed too many times.  I was beginning to get some feeling back into my feet when she came over with bread and salt fish. “That ought to do for a sailor,” she said, and I nodded polite thanks, though in truth I’d eaten enough fish while at sea that I’d have preferred the toughest fowl or most dubious of hams.  “If you’d come a week ago, we’d have had nothing for you but pork.”  “Too bad,” I said, and tried not to think about crisp bacon. At that moment, a dull music split the air, the heavy tolling of a steeple-bell.  It rang twice, paused, rang twice again, and then began a doleful series of strokes.  It was the death knell, and I put on my most solemn face, thinking how awkward it was to be a stranger in a small town at such a time.  “Who do you suppose has died?” “I expect no one yet,” Mister Smith said.  His wife said nothing, only stood with her mouth pressed tight together, listening to the tolling bell.  In a small town such as this, I could well believe they kept up the old custom of ringing the bell as soon as the parson heard news of a death, but to ring it before the death seemed perverse. “Surely there aren’t any hangings here,” I said.  A condemned prisoner was the only sort of man I could think of whose death might be predicted with certainty beforehand.  “I suppose if someone’s lying deathly ill . . .”  “We’ll know by morning,” Mister Smith said.  “The bell never lies, you see—”  He broke off abruptly as the bell finally came to the end of its dull refrain and seemed at a loss for how to go on. “Twenty-six,” Mistress Smith said, and when I turned at her tone I saw that her face had turned gray with some strong emotion I didn’t understand.  “Nine strokes to tell a man, and twenty-six to tell his age.  Don’t tell me I miscounted.” “I’m sure you didn’t,” the smith said.  He twisted the leather of his apron in his hands, looking from one of us to the other.  “It might be best if you found your bed now.” “The hour is growing late,” I said, because I misliked his wife’s expression, and had developed aboard ship a keen sense of how the wind was blowing. The man picked up a lantern and led me back out into the chill dooryard.  The ladder up to the loft above the forge was rickety, and he held the lantern to light my way.  “You mustn’t mind my wife,” he said.  “Our troubles here are nothing to do with you.” Well, only the most incurious of born lubbers could have refrained from asking the question after that. “What did she mean about the bell?” “There’s somewhat wrong with our church bell,” Smith said.  “The parson rings it in the ordinary way after every death in the town, but you can hear it all through town the night before.” It took me a moment to parse that.  “You mean the bell rings before someone dies?” “The bell sounds before someone dies, but the parson doesn’t ring it until after.  It’s been that way as long as anyone in town can remember. You mustn’t think we’re entirely ungrateful; when it tolls for your old uncle, you can go round and see him beforehand and say your farewells, you see?  But it’s hard when it tolls for a child, or a man in his prime with little chance of passing away peacefully in his bed.” The light from the lantern shifted, as if his hand were less than steady on its handle.  Outside its circle of light, black branches bent against a dark sky that was beginning to spit frigid rain.  “This wouldn’t be a tale spun to frighten travelers, would it?” I asked.  “For I’ve heard them all in my time.” “I swear it’s the plain truth,” Smith said.  “And it’s a bad night for traveling, but I’ll understand if you’d rather be on your way.”  He paused a moment and then added, “It might be for the best.  You heard what the bell told.” “I’m willing to take the chance,” I said.  “I’ve heard more frightening stories than this.” “It’s no more than the truth,” the man said, but with resignation, as if he were used to skepticism from strangers.  He hung up the lantern, and turned abruptly to go.  “Your horse is shod and I’ve got your coins for the night’s lodging, so I expect we’re square, and there’s no more that needs to be said.”  He tramped out, leaving me to ascend the ladder in no mood to settle down easily to sleep. I shivered for a while under the thin horse blanket spread over an equally thin pallet, and then realized that the forge and the kitchen of the house shared a common chimney that went up the opposite wall.  I made my way over to it, hoping to warm my hands at least, and I heard the mutter of voices through the wall.  After a bare moment’s hesitation, I pressed my ear unashamed to the stones, having long profited from such caution.  “Give me the hatchet,” I heard Mistress Smith say, and was abruptly glad I hadn’t balked at eavesdropping. “You don’t need the hatchet,” Mister Smith said.  “I mean to leave it in the good Lord’s hands.” “You mean you don’t mean to lift a hand yourself to save your life, when it’s you or that stranger who’ll die tonight.  Well, you needn’t get your hands dirty if you scruple to it.  Just you give me the hatchet, and tell anyone who asks that you slept sound.” “And what do you mean to say, when the town watch comes knocking?” “Old Bill?  I’ll tell him that I woke at a noise in the courtyard, and came out to see men running away.  He’ll set up a hue and cry that will take the rest of the night.  You’ll see.”  There was a feverish certainty to her voice.  “All you need do is leave it all to me.” “I won’t have it, I tell you.” “I don’t care what you will and won’t have.  You’re not much of a man, it seems, but you’re my man, and I don’t mean to wager your life on the toss of a coin.  Give me the hatchet, and don’t you set foot outside until I come back.”  I had only a few moments to escape.  I had a knife, which I took up now, and the cover of darkness on my side.  For all that, my heart was pounding in my chest; I’ve never been a brawler, nor been much in the habit of fighting with women.  I made for the ladder, but before I reached it I heard the sound of footsteps below.  “Do you lie comfortably?” Mistress Smith’s voice rose up. I thought of feigning snores, but lacked confidence in my own dramatic skills. “Quite comfortably,” I called back down.  “I’ve everything a man could want.” “I thought I’d bring you a hot drink,” she said.  “A bit of a toddy to take the chill from the air.  Do come down and drink it before it gets cold.” “It’s very kind,” I said, putting my back to the loft wall and hoping that a swung hatchet wouldn’t go through it.  “But I never touch the demon drink, not since I got religion.” “A sailor who’s an abstainer?” she said.  “I never heard of such.” “It’s true all the same,” I said.  “It pleases my girl, you understand.” “I’ve a blanket for you at least,” she said.  “And you can come in with me and fetch a cup of hot milk.” “Thank you kindly, but I’ll lodge where I am.”  I held my breath, and heard the ladder creak as she put her foot on it.  It creaked twice more, and then her head and shoulders appeared framed in the doorway and light glinted off the hatchet blade.  I kicked her square in the bosom, though I’m not proud to say it, and knocked her and the ladder both down from the loft.  I swung down after her, seeing her sprawled in the straw, unhurt but struggling to rise, and went for the hatchet. She grasped it as well, her hands clawing at mine, raking them with her fingernails.  “Will you give over!” I tried to shoulder her away.  “You’re wrong in what you think.  I’m no man of twenty-six.” “You claim now you were lying?” Her face was close enough to mine as we struggled that I could smell her breath.  “There’s a strange habit, for a man to tell lies about his age to everyone he meets.” Her grip on the hatchet loosened as she spoke, and I tightened my own.  “So it would be,” I said.  “But I’m no man, and that was the lie I told.  That and the bit about the drink, which I admit is a besetting vice.  I put on breeches to go to sea, but I’m a woman all the same underneath them, and never more glad of it than today.”  I forebore to add that my girl was glad of it too, as I felt under the circumstances it would be taken as cheek. She laughed in my face.  “That’s a nasty lie to save your skin.” “I’ll prove it if you like,” I said.  “If you’ll give over your attempt to chop me up for firewood long enough.” At that moment, her husband came in, and I shoved her toward him, hoping that he’d catch the hatchet out of her hands.  He plucked it away from her with his left hand and tossed it aside, but as he let her go I saw that he had a cleaver in his right hand.  I saw the bulging of his shoulders and thought I must know what a chicken felt like at butchering time. “It came on me that it was wrong to leave the missus to do what must be done,” he said. “I’ll swear any oath you like, my mother named me Kate,” I said, and reached for the top button of my shirt. “A wicked wench who’ll dress up as a man can’t complain if she’s buried as one,” the woman said, and I saw a look pass between her and her husband that made my heart sink.  “What the parson doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” “I’m sorry to have to do it,” Mister Smith told me, but he was lifting the cleaver, and I turned tail and ran. I heard the clamor of dogs barking behind me, and rethought in a hurry my initial plan to make for the road out of town.  I looked about for a tree to climb, and saw none.  There was a stone wall at the end of the lane, though, and I went pelting toward it with what sounded like a whole Bedlam of dogs baying at my heels. They leapt snarling as I scrambled up the wall, but any sailor, lad or lass, can climb like a monkey, and I reached the top of the wall and dropped down on the other side.  I was in a little churchyard, but before I could slip away over the wall on the other side, the parson came out to see what was the matter with the dogs, who were still howling in a perfect fury.  Though he wore spectacles balanced on his narrow nose, he also had a heavy stick in his hand and looked as if he were willing to use it. “The blacksmith set his dogs on me,” I blurted out.  “I swear to you I’m no thief.” The parson didn’t loosen his grip on the stick.  “I don’t believe Mister Smith is in the habit of setting his dogs on innocent strangers.” “It’s on account of the bell, the passing bell,” I said, and couldn’t help looking up at the tower that threw its shadow over us both.  The bell tower was just a rickety little thing by the measure of city churches, but the pool of gloom it cast over the churchyard seemed heavy and dark.  “His wife put him up to it, for she thinks it’s either him or me who’ll die tonight.” The parson came forward a little, then, and looked me up and down through his spectacles.  “I never knew the blacksmith’s age,” he said, as if speaking as much to himself as to me.  “I try not to know, you see.  But in a town so small, it’s hard not to be aware . . .”  He shook his head, and there was something closed in his expression.  “I think I had better see you out the gate,” he said. “The dogs are still out there,” I pointed out. “That’s really not my concern.” “And you a parson.” “I can’t stop what’s to come,” he said.  “You must understand that, you must see.  I’ve tried, sometimes, when I knew.  There was a girl, a child of thirteen . . . I sat up with her all night, in the church, and we prayed together.  She wept, and I told her to have faith, that the Lord would protect her.  And an hour before morning her fear overcame her, and she rose to flee.  I caught hold of her, I demanded she stay, I promised she would be safe.  I struggled with her.  And she fell, and her head struck the altar steps.  And God was silent.” He reached out and caught hold of my collar to march me toward the gates.  My hand rested on my knife, and then I took it away again, not sure if I could bring myself to stab a man of the cloth, even to make my escape.  “I don’t see why you can’t just resolve not to ring the bell anymore,” I said.  “If you don’t ring it in the morning . . .” “I did not ring it that night,” he said, still marching me along, as if by thrusting me out the gates he could banish the memory.  “I sat on the altar steps in misery, and at the first light, I heard the bell tolling.  It was little Johnnie Boots, the choirboy, who had taken it into his head to ring the bell for me as a kindness, since, as he said, I must have been taken ill.”  He paused before the high wooden gate, and outside I heard an eager chorus of barks, and then the even more ominous growling of dogs who see their aim in sight.  “There are some who have called for us to take down the bell,” he said.  I silently cheered on “some,” whoever they might be.  “But it is the Lord who put this curse on us, and when he judges us free of sin, he will take it away again.  When we have been made clean.”  His knuckles were white on his stick, and his eyes were on the horizon, as if he saw some horror there I couldn’t see.  “I have prayed, but of course my sinner’s prayers have not been answered,” he said.  “Pray now, and perhaps yours will be heard as mine have not been.” I put my hands together, although I had done precious little praying of any kind since I’d taken up my present life.  It sat badly with me to beg for my life anyway, like a craven captain pleading for quarter on his knees.  Dear Lord, I’ve been a wicked woman but a good seaman, I said silently.  You’ve winked at my deceit, and let me live when better men have died.  If you care for wicked women, as I’ve heard you did in life, show me one more trick to save my skin.  The parson was reaching for the gate, and I blurted out, “A moment more!” “You’ve had time for your prayers.” “A moment to wish my girl goodbye,” I said, and drew out the locket I carried.  It was a little tin thing with a half-penny sketch inside, but the boy who drew it had caught Minnie’s laughing eyes, and it was worth a fortune in gold to me.  She’d scolded me for going back to the sea, though it was my wages that kept her all the time I was away, and told me at some length that if I drowned she wouldn’t have a single prayer said for my worthless wayward soul. “You’ve had that as well,” the parson said, and reached for the latch on the gate.  I reached again for my knife, wondering if I could stick him without hurting him too much, and what the townsmen would do to me if they caught me after that.  Being hanged for stabbing a parson seemed even worse than being hacked apart for nothing. And then I had it, all at once, like a breath of wind snapping open a slack sail.  “One thing more!” I demanded.  “I had a traveling companion on the road, another sailor who took ill and died by the wayside.  I buried him as best I could, but I’d be easier in my mind if the passing bell were rung for him.  His name was Tom, and I know his age as well, for he told me at the end he was born twenty-six years ago to the day.”    The parson stood staring at me for a long moment.  “Do you expect me for one moment to believe such a story?” “Is it any of your business to doubt it?” I asked, and reached into my coat to draw out my purse.  “If I had come to you a week ago, would you have questioned whether there was a man named Tom or a roadside grave?”  “I would not,” he admitted.  I held out my purse to him, and while I’d like to believe he took it in pure gratitude for the escape I offered him, I can’t say that its weight didn’t figure in his decision as well. “Then go on and ring the passing bell for poor old Tom,” I said.  “For I think I have worn out my welcome in this town, or at least it has worn out its welcome with me, and I am eager to be on the road again.” I followed him to the foot of the tower stairs, and watched him ascend.  I waited until the sound of his steps told me he had gone a full turn of the stairs, and then started up after him, keeping my own steps quiet.  Even after everything that had happened, I was not entirely prepared for what I saw when I mounted to the bell-tower; the parson was heaving on the bell-rope, his back to me, and the bell was heaving as well, the clapper slamming into its sides hard enough that I could see its tremor, but no sound came from the bell, no sound at all.  The only sound was the wind, keening through the wide openings on all sides of the tower like a crying dog. I waited, breath held, until the bell made its final swing and the parson released the bellrope.  I scrambled around him, evading his surprised attempt to catch me back, and clambered up onto the beams that held the bell in place.  The bell was an old one, and held only by thick ropes, not by a heavy chain; it was the work of a moment to hack the stiff ropes in two. There was a clamor like brazen hounds baying in hell as the bell came crashing down.  It tumbled out the open side of the bell tower, clattering for a moment on its edge and then plunging toward the earth. “They do say the Lord helps those as help themselves,” I said, jumping down.  The parson crossed himself and backed away from me. “There’s some devil in you, and I’m not sure whether to try to cast it out or thank you for what you’ve done,” he said.  “Call it payment for all the hospitality I’ve had in this town,” I said.  “But now I must be away.”  I took off down the stairs at a run, and plunged out into the open air. I stopped short when I saw the bell lying fallen on the churchyard stones.  It was cracked and split, crumpled like the body of Mister Smith, who lay fallen beneath it, with his dogs circling round him, cringing now and whimpering. The parson came out after me, and made the sign of the cross over the dead blacksmith in silence.  “He was a good man,” he said after a while. “I expect he was,” I said.  “You mustn’t blame yourself.” “Nor will I,” I said, for it seemed the blacksmith had been doomed from the time the bell first sounded, and at least now the bell had rung its last. “But can I have my purse back, then?  I expect I can find a man to ring the passing bell for my old mate Tom somewhere considerably nearer home.” The parson gave me a look as he handed it over that I suppose I well deserved, but what can I say?  I’ve never claimed to be a good man, but I am Minnie’s best girl, and she’d been waiting patiently for me to bring her home my pay, and to come back to her safely from the sea. END   “The Passing Bell” was originally published in Temporally Out of Order and is copyright Amy Griswold, 2015. 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 I’ll be back soon with a GlitterShip original.

Jo Graham (co-host of How2Wrestling) is a 20something Brit who knew nothing about the OJ Simpson trial until there was a TV show based on it. Elle is a 30something American who remembers when it was on TV all the time. These two points of view convergence for a conversation about the best TV show of 2016.

Join Kefin Mahon as he guides new fan Jo Graham through the weird and wonderful world of wrestling entertainment! Don't forget to follow us on Twitter @How2Wrestling and Facebook.com/how2wrestling for updates and silly wrestling goofs.

 Family Theatre. December 11, 1947. "Substitute Santa" A Christmas story set in a busy department store. Romance and re-union in the toy department. Ray Milland (host), Frank McHugh, James Burke, David Young (director), Max Terr (music), Harry Lawrence (writer), Oona Morteshed, Bob Rockwell, Bob Young, Tony La Frano (announcer), Margie List, Jo Graham, Gwen Delano, Phil Bernard. oldtimeradiodvd.com

Family Theatre. July 29, 1948. Mutual net. "Christmas In July". Sustaining. A young medical student studying on the G. I. Bill after the war finds that his lessons, baby and married life difficult objectives to achieve. James Craig (host), Shirley Temple, John Agar, Jo Graham, Bill McAndrew, Paul McVey, Mark Carney (writer), Max Terr (music), David Young (director), Merrill Ross (announcer).oldtimeradiodvd.com

Family Theatre. October 14, 1948. Mutual net. "Farewell To Birdie McKeesler". Sustaining. The recceptionist at a law firm is very inefficient and must be discharged...not an easy task! George Murphy (host), June Haver, Jane Spee (?), Charles Maxwell, Leo Cleary, Jo Graham, Herb Butterfield, Alan Reed. © The Family Rosary, Inc, d/b/a Family Theater Productions All Rights Reserved. This show is posted with the expressed written consent of the owner and exclusively granted to Boxcars711 Old Time Radio. To learn more about Family Theater Productions or to view a list of local radio stations that air our programs or to purchase episodes, follow this link: http://www.familytheater.org/radio-classic.html

Family Theatre. September 23, 1948. Mutual net. "Branigan's Bat". Sustaining. A third rate baseball player suddenly propels his team into the World Series. It happens after he inherits the bat own by Biff Branigan, the best player since Babe Ruth. Jeanne Crain (hostess), Steve Dunne, Gale Storm, Irwin Lieberman (writer), David Young (director), Max Terr (music), Merrill Ross (announcer), Ken Christy, Hal Berger, Ruth Perrott, Gilbert Barnett, Jo Graham, Charles Maxwell. © The Family Rosary, Inc, d/b/a Family Theater Productions All Rights Reserved. This show is posted with the expressed written consent of the owner and exclusively granted to Boxcars711 Old Time Radio. To learn more about Family Theater Productions or to view a list of local radio stations that air our programs or to purchase episodes, follow this link: http://www.familytheater.org/radio-classic.html