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15 episodes with old war
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2 episodes with old war
2 episodes with old war
2 episodes with old war
Alan Shapiro was born in Boston, Massachusetts and graduated from Brandeis University in Waltham, Massachusetts. Shapiro has published fourteen poetry collections, including A Dress Rehearsal for the Truth; By and By; Life Pig; Reel to Reel; Night of the Republic, a finalist for the 2013 Griffin Poetry Prize and the National Book Award; and Old War, winner of the Ambassador Book Award. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Dr. Casey Babb, Senior fellow at the Macdonald-Laurier Institute in Ottawa and an Advisor to Secure Canada
GOD Provides / JESUS Saves Patreon https://bit.ly/3jcLDuZ Servant MilitoBecome a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/gunfighter-life-survival-guns--4187306/support.
drift, drift, dream, dream, nightmare CREEPYPASTA ► "My grandmother just confessed to a sinister war story that happened to all the soldiers in training" written by 0hShaSha, narrated by ClancyPasta ► https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1hjw29t/my_grandmother_just_confessed_to_a_sinister_war/ Here on ClancyPasta we provide audio narrations of scary stories of all kinds - from classic creepypastas, to new creepypastas, to other scary stories from the internet and beyond. Been recording since 2017! Here are ways to support the channel if you wish ~ MERCH ► http://teespring.com/stores/clancypastastore PATREON ► https://patreon.com/clancypasta MEMBERSHIP ► https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCnfg9w5hrnPT7oA1H3uRZEQ/join Here's where you can find me, and also links to the audio version of the show ~ X / TWITTER ► http://x.com/clancypasta INSTA ► https://instagram.com/clancypasta SPOTIFY ► https://open.spotify.com/show/51DHHPsFnEvDAGfRiZPMF7 ANCHOR.FM ► https://anchor.fm/clancypasta ► Background footage licensed from StoryBlocks. MUSIC ► Background music and sound effects licensed from StoryBlocks. #Creepypasta #scarystories #horrorstories #ClancyPasta
"Let George Do It" was a compelling American radio drama series broadcast from 1946 to 1954. Created by Owen and Pauline Vinson, it starred Bob Bailey as private investigator George Valentine, later voiced by Olan Soule. The show transitioned from sitcom-style episodes to thrilling private eye stories, directed by Don Clark. George Valentine's services were advertised in the newspaper, and he worked with his secretary Claire Brooks (voiced by various actresses). The show featured recurring characters like Sonny, Caleb, and Lieutenant Riley. John Hiestand announced the episodes, and the music evolved from a full orchestra to an organ.
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For more, visit www.BishalSarkar.com. In this powerful episode of the "I Love Public Speaking" podcast, Bishal Sarkar shares the inspiring story of a 14-year-old war survivor who has profound lessons to teach about public speaking. Join Bishal Sarkar as he reveals how this young survivor's resilience, courage, and ability to communicate under unimaginable circumstances can offer invaluable insights for speakers of all levels. Learn how to harness your own inner strength and authenticity to connect deeply with your audience, just as this remarkable young person has done. Tune in to the "I Love Public Speaking" podcast with Bishal Sarkar to discover how lessons from extraordinary life experiences can enhance your public speaking skills and impact.
Broken People: Faithful God Judges 2:10-19
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Hello Eveyone, I hope all is well this our brand new episode. After editing our author interview with Wanda Adams Fischer she gave a great tip on letting your characters take the story in a different direction. We had a coffee review of Great Value Hazelnut coffee by Walmart. In my option it had good favor and taste with French Vanilla creamer . Remembering The Icon Sting sharing a memory from the Last WCW live Even in Buffalo, NY at the Old War memorial area Podcast Support:https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/chasingstoriespodcast/support Destiny's Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Destiny-Constantin/e/B08QW84ZHN?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&qid=1619256834&sr=8-1 Remember to follow us on social media! X @_chasingstories Destiny's X @WriterDestiny Destiny's Instagram @WriterDestiny94 Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/chasingstories2 As always, thank you for taking the time to listen to our podcast. --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/chasingstoriespodcast/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/chasingstoriespodcast/support
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War is heck. And old war is more heckish. Listen, if you can stomach it, to the needless violent tunes of Shae, Zach, and Caleb as they triple-handedly try to inspire the end of war, only to fail miserably. Thanks to Gabriel Goulding and Ethan Young for producing this episode. Visit Linktr.ee/ImprovBroadway for more improv goodness, including our FREE improv comedy specials. --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/musicalmonday/support
Toxic drug deaths continue to break records in BC. We need an immediate expansion on all harm reduction initiatives. More than anything, we need a real safe supply. Instead, the BC NDP is moving backwards. They've fallen in line with a nation-wide moral panic and are actively rolling back the province's hydromorphone prescribing and drug … Continue reading Episode 41: New Front, Old War →
Luxury travel and lifestyle reporter Ute Junker checked out The Old War Office and gave Nightlife listeners the scoop with Philip Clark.
Prepare for an exhilarating journey on this week's episode of So There I Was, aptly titled "156618, My Old War Horse." Listeners are in for a breathtaking adventure as they meet the remarkable "Hound," who takes center stage alongside hosts Fig and RePete. Hound's lifelong fascination with flight ignited in a small airplane, where he gazed upon his own house from the skies, setting the stage for a life of airborne intrigue. Hound's determination led him to the Naval Academy, his eyes fixed on becoming a carrier-based pilot. However, a twist of fate steered him away from the Marines when he uncovered the precarious nature of flight status within their ranks. Undaunted, he embarked on advanced jet training in Meridian, MS, ultimately choosing the RA-5C Vigilante—a Mach-2 photo reconnaissance jet—as his vessel of choice after completing flight school. The heart-stopping apex of Hound's narrative occurs as he finds himself virtually alone over the perilous skies of North Vietnam, facing an astonishing 11 SA-2 Surface-to-Air missiles, one of which strikes their aircraft. Through a combination of skill, unyielding determination, and a dash of incredible luck, Hound miraculously returns to the carrier. But Hound's odyssey doesn't conclude there. He regales us with tales of flying iconic aircraft like the A-4s, A-5's, F-4s, and F-14s, all while forsaking the allure of a desk job at the Pentagon. This enthralling episode is an absolute must-listen for aviation aficionados and history enthusiasts alike. Special thanks to our Patreon "Pilots!" But, as the saying goes, "Money isn't everything!" Don't miss your chance to contribute by leaving reviews at the bottom of the Apple Podcast App and sharing the show with two friends this week, ensuring that the excitement spreads far and wide! Sadly, She's been scrapped! The Old War Horse Fast Times! Fond Memories of Flying the "Vigi" Manning up before being called back to go to war! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmVN8htYt6Y
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#Russia's invasion of #Ukraine approaches its 11th month and has crossed into a new year, and #TeamKrulak's Russia SME Dr. Yuval Weber brings us up to speed on the last two weeks and what 2023 bodes. We discuss two very different leadership trips - Zelensky to Washington, DC, and Putin to Minsk - Russia's days-long drone and missile attacks on Ukraine entering the new year, and today's HIMARS strike on a Russian barracks in the town of Makiivka in occupied Donetsk which reportedly caused hundreds of Russian casualties. NOTE: there were some small audio issues in the recording of this episode. All opinions expressed here are those of the individual and do not necessarily reflect those of the Krulak Center, Marine Corps University, the United States Marine Corps, or any other agency of the U.S. Government. Enjoyed this episode? Think there's room for improvement? Share your thoughts in this quick survey - all feedback is welcome! The survey may be found here: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSenRutN5m31Pfe9h7FAlppPWoN1s_2ZJyBeA7HhYhvDbazdCw/viewform?usp=sf_link Intro/outro music is "Epic" from BenSound.com (https://www.bensound.com) Follow the Krulak Center: Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thekrulakcenter Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/thekrulakcenter/ Twitter: @TheKrulakCenter YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCcIYZ84VMuP8bDw0T9K8S3g LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/company/brute-krulak-center-for-innovation-and-future-warfare Krulak Center homepage on The Landing: https://unum.nsin.us/kcic
Danny helped Steve get tickets for Magic Kingdom. There is a pizza shop “Moto” where you can't get a reservation for 3 months.
For many people in Canada, Queen Elizabeth is the only monarch they've ever known. But Enid Stevenson in Corner Brook has a different perspective. The 101-year-old English war bride was 31 when Elizabeth became queen and has been able to watch her entire reign over the past seven decades. CBC's Cherie Wheeler visited Enid Stevenson and spoke to her about the late queen.
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New evidence uncovered long after a prehistoric cemetery was discovered in Sudan suggest that its inhabitants weren't killed in what was believed to be one of humankind's earliest known battles but may instead have died over the course of protracted warfare. Furthermore, the study by paleoanthropologist Isabelle Crevecoeur of the University of Bordeaux, France, and her team of anthropologists, geochemists and prehistorians suggests the ongoing series of raids, ambushes and other violence was likely attributable to an issue all too familiar to 21st-century society: climate change.
You may not know the name, but you should! Arch (Archibald) Jelly was the career-long coach of John Walker, Olympic gold medalist and one of our best runners ever. I am so glad I got to meet Arch and now get to share this story with you. You'll hear: What it was like living through the great depression of 1930 in Dunedin. His experiences inside submarines during WW2. The story of how he coached John Walker to be one of New Zealands greatest evert runners. The (rather unromantic) story of how he got with his second wife at the age of 80. His thoughts on getting a Telegram from the Queen when he turns 100 in August and much, much more. This is so much more than a running conversation- its a history lesson. Arch is a war vet and his father fought (and survived) Gallipoli in the first world war. So it seems fitting to release this episode on Monday April 25th, ANZAC day in NZ. PS: Here is a link if you want to watch John Walkers incredible 1976 Olympic race at Montreal (Arch has some great memories of this which he freely shares): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xq2rb7TMx14
Donald Trump's former National Security Advisor, Retired General Mike Flynn, tells Graham Ledger that Joe Biden opened the door for Vladimir Putin to invade and attack Ukraine. And, now that Biden has done that, only the United States can close that door – one way or another. Also, in this episode of The Ledger Report, Graham speaks with the man behind the People's Convoy to Washington DC which has reached the pinnacle of its long and very important journey to restore Constitutional America. Please subscribe free to The Ledger Report by clicking here: www.GrahamLedger.com See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.
Heritage advocates are calling for a 103-year-old war memorial building in Christchurch to be saved from demolition.
Good morning! This morning I talk about data privacy and the metaverse. It seems this war has been going on for centuries and this is just another battleground. Sources: https://venturebeat.com/2022/01/28/metaverse-vs-data-privacy-a-clash-of-the-titans/ https://iapp.org/connect/data-privacy-day/ https://nordvpn.com/lt/blog/metaverse-survey/
Rev. Matt Miller from First presbyterian Church in Louisville, MS preaches on James 4-1-6.
Dr. Caleb Karges (History) explains the nature of the War of Spanish Succession (1701-1714), the lessons it teaches us, and why it still matters today. Dr. Karges also regularly hosts a feature podcast series with Cui Bono Cast, called “The History Suite.” He is also faculty-in-residence at the Global Village Living-Learning Community.
It's clear from the last night's loss that Democrats need new messaging. Boyd looks at Terry McAuliffe's strategy of frequently criticizing former President Trump and why looking to the past is not a good blueprint for the future. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
In this episode we discuss a few ideas on the battle of the Sexes! Public Speaking and Voice Awareness: https://www.udemy.com/course/public-speaking-and-voice-awareness-techniques/?referralCode=E14F4ABA11339CECD409 Meditative Surrealist Drawing with Ballpoint Pen: https://www.udemy.com/course/meditative-surrealist-drawing-with-ballpoint-pen/?referralCode=A85D5BD23A71B69E149A MDMA Online: https://www.udemy.com/course/mdma-nyw/?referralCode=A82F4DAC24E593162453 MDMA Promo Vid: https://youtu.be/MH3cT1mfPvY Find DELM on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/delm413/ Find more episodes here: Podbean: https://andrewlakepodcast.podbean.com/ iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/au/podcast/andrew-lake-podcast/id1439388762?mt=2 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/36T6M5UiOt9E35U6faNQUi Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/user/JonoLakeside
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Pete, Matt & Kymba Catch Up - Mix 94.5 Perth - Pete Curulli, Kymba Cahill, Matt Dyktynski
00:00 UNCUT: Arthur Leggett – 102 year-old war veteran 11:12 Hungry Jacks bring back the Yumbo 18:51 Pete went to a toy fair 22:49 Matt's smoking song See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
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Get Access Into The Realm Of Liberty From The Flesh
Lessons From A 112-Year-Old War Veteran: How To Live A Long, Fulfilling Life (Ep. 553) "Take it day by night." Ryan Holiday Blog On Richard Overton: https://ryanholiday.net/richard-overton/ FOLLOW AUXORO (INSTA): https://www.instagram.com/auxoro/FOLLOW AUXORO (FB): https://www.facebook.com/auxoromag/FOLLOW AUXORO (TWITTER): https://twitter.com/AuxoromagFOLLOW AUXORO (TikTok): https://www.tiktok.com/@auxoroAUXORO NEWSLETTER: https://www.auxoro.com/thesourceAUXORO MERCH: https://www.auxoro.com/storeWEBSITE/BLOG: https://www.auxoro.com/AUXORO PODCAST (guest conversations): https://www.flow.page/auxoro
The highest rated guest in Jim Alexander and the most requested guest TK Trinidad stop by on this week's episode. The gang talks dating, hosting, and changes in the craft in 2020. Learn more about Wassup Flobo?: After Hours on KnewAmsterdam.com --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/wassup-flobo/support
Danny Black is a guitarist, tone nerd, and a real cool dude. He plays in a band called Good Old War, and has a string of excellent solo records. The most recent of which is called Black Ryno and it is out wherever you get your music. Check it out here! If you would like to do that, TEXT ME at (503) 751-8577 Support the show and get extra episodes over at Patreon.com/tonemob. You can also help out with your gear buying habits by purchasing stuff from Tonemob.com/reverb or Tonemob.com/sweetwater Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Ma Perkins (sometimes called Oxydol's Own Ma Perkins) is an American radio soap opera which was heard on NBC from 1933 to 1949 and on CBS from 1942 to 1960. Between 1942 and 1949, the show was heard simultaneously on both networks.---------------------------------------------------------------------------Entertainment Radio Stations Live 24/7 Sherlock Holmes/CBS Radio Mystery Theaterhttps://live365.com/station/Sherlock-Holmes-Classic-Radio--a91441https://live365.com/station/CBS-Radio-Mystery-Theater-a57491----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Keith and Tommy sit down with Keith Goodwin of Good Old War. We discuss Keith's early days in the Bucks County scene, his first band Days Away, the recording of their now classic 2005 LP "Mapping and Invisible World", band ups and downs and their eventual demise. We also discuss the formation of Good Old War, performing with Anthony Green and the Sound of Animals Fighting, life, addiction and more.
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In this episode, we will explore the prevailing narratives around battle of Talikota in 1565 AD, reasons behind Vijayanagara's decisive rout in the epic battle. By the end of it we will try to answer some crucial questions like, what is it that Rama Raya did wrong? What did the Deccan Sultanate alliance do right? What role did technology of the day play in the end result? Or was it sheer luck that the alliance won on that day?
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I vividly remember the first time I heard Good Old War's Come Back As Rain. It was March of 2012 and I had just quit my corporate job in Austin so that I could move back home to open my recording studio which would go on to become The Looking Glass. As Rach and I were packing up our tiny 668 square foot rental house, I casually opened Spotify to stream the album after reading several positive reviews. I wanted to know if the hype was real. It was one of those rare moments when the feeling of the music completely connected to the way I was feeling in my own life. Rach and I went on to spin the album continuously for an entire month as we spent time in Colorado to snowboard and plan for the year to come. I still can't listen to that album without thinking about that month in the mountains. Fast forward to fall of 2019. I'm trying to get this podcast off the ground and somehow I knew that Good Old War's drummer/vocalist, Tim Arnold, lived in Atlanta. After several direct messages and a few weeks, Tim shows up for an in-depth interview and a Tone Zone session here at The Looking Glass. In this episode, we talk about Tim's origin story, what it was like to be signed to a label at an early age, the rise of Good Old War, being broke and finally making money on tour, living in Atlanta, his new project (Found Wild), playing with Anthony Green, and of course, gear.
The Emperor Strikes Back! Zombie Palpatine (Ian McDiarmid) steps from the shadows with secrets that could force last Jedi Rey (Daisy Ridley) to turn to the Dark Side and bad boy Kylo Ren (Adam Driver). But General Leia (Carrie Fisher) is committed to using every last ounce of her Old War star power to squash this Final Order, and pave the way for The Rise of Skywalker. Find out how much resistance Arnie, Jakob, and Stuart put up for the ninth and final episode in the Star Wars saga in when you download this massive podcast. Listen Now!
Jackson, Zafiir and Mordecai meet their new guide, and learn of their newfound, outreaching reputation.
If you're anything like the dumb dago himself (Vince) who can't seem to figure how to buckle his bootstraps and pull up those pantaloons well we have a special present for him and the rest of Old World citizens out there! We have the Godfather of Heresy, Necromunda, and Fantasy himself, Tim Corublo, of The Eye of Horus: A Horus Heresy themed Podcast, EOH:GANGBANG: A Saucy, Necromunda Themed Podcast, EOH: Engine Kill: For When you Bring That #BDE Adeptus Titanicus Themed Podcast and lastly, The Lector Counts: A Warhammer 8th Edition Fantasy Themed Podcast where Men name Renee are allowed to speak. In this longass episode Tim and Scott attempt educate Vincent-eh how to roll dice in the Old War by going soup-to-nuts, gnat's ass detail in the Warhammer 8th Ed MRB. RFI Castors: Scott & Vince/Special Guest: Tim Corublo -Introductions -Warhammer Fantasy Armies Everyone Plays and What Got Them Started -"Stupidity" Phase -Charge Phase -Shooting Phase -Close Combat Phase -Speed Drill: Warhammer Fantasy Army Faction & Should You Start It -Shoutouts: Rembrancer's Retreat Jar-O-Bits Guess-a-thon Charity Event, Eye Of Horus Podcast, EOH: Lector Counts Podcast, Wizard's Warhammer Fantasy Gaming Group out of Louisville, KY & COUNTDOWN TO WARGAMES CAMP 2019 AT CAMP JAMESON!
Ep. 18 - Diadem Dust The Old War by That Weird Podcast
One of the worst mass atrocities in recent times took place in Sri Lanka during the final days of that country’s long civil war. In May 2009, tens of thousands of people were killed by Sri Lankan armed forces over the course of just a few days as the military sought to deal a final blow to an insurgent group known as the Tamil Tigers. In the process, they killed as many as 40,000 civilians. No one was brought to justice for this crime against humanity. And the lack of accountability for those crimes is a key factor in that my guest, Kate Cronin- Furman, argues is contributing to political instability in Sri Lanka today. Kate Cronin-Furman is an assistant professor of Human Rights in the Department of Political Science, University College London. In this conversation, she explains what happened during the final days of that civil war when this massacre occurred. We then discuss how the forces that carried out that crime against humanity are posing a big challenge to the political life of Sri Lanka, which entered an extremely tumultuous period this fall in which two people claimed to be prime minister at the same time. We kick off discussing the Sri Lankan civil war and its brutal end days before having a longer discussion about the ways in which the lack of accountability for those events are undermining the political stability of Sri Lanka today. This massacre of 40,000 people was second only to the genocide in Darfur as the worst mass atrocity event of the first decade of the 21st century. As you will learn in this episode, Sri Lankan politics is still defined by this atrocity in ways harmful to a healthy democracy.
Mowgli is hiding among the humans to stay safe from Shere Khan after burning and shaming the tiger at the showdown at Council Rock. The problem? The tiger knows where Mowgli is, and he is coming for the man cub. The Myths and Legends store: https://shop.bardic.fm -- Sponsors: Check out the best podcasts of 2018 on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/genre/podcasts-page -- Music: “Where it all happened” by Blue Dot Sessions “Illa Villardo” by Blue Dot Sessions “Darkened Treeline” by Blue Dot Sessions “Your Mother’s Daughter” by Chris Zabriskie “There’s probably no time” by Chris Zabriskie “Beignet Interlude” by Blue Dot Sessions
Join Victor and Simon today as we discuss Exalted: Graceful Wicked Masques -- how it relates to Changeling: the Dreaming, its strengths as a source of inspiration, its weaknesses in creating something actually playable, and some of the likely real world inspiration that went into the book. Readings How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War by Rose Lemberg, Selected Poems of Saigyo Hoshi, and Family Terrorists by Antoya Nelson. Music LSD by Mon Plaisir, Four by Monplaisir, and Agony of Echoes by Yaka-anima. Sounds Walking on Pavement, Office Ambience, Singing Mountain, Crows Talking, Bell Tolls, Fraser Range Salt Lake Eve To purchase Changeling: the Dreaming as well as a wide array of other role playing texts go to DriveThruRPG.com. We have a blog now! Come read some of our more fully developed thoughts about playing and playing with the Changeling: the Dreaming rules and setting at Parting the Mists. Portions of the materials are the copyrights and trademarks of White Wolf Publishing AB, and are used with permission. All rights reserved. For more information please visit white-wolf.com.
In episode 26, Jack & Miles are joined for the third time by comedian Jamie Loftus to discuss sex crimes, Louis CK's statements, Alabama judge Roy Moore, Veteran Day heroes, Taylor Swift's new album, & the weekly tabloid round up. Learn more about your ad-choices at https://news.iheart.com/podcast-advertisers
Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 36 for April 13, 2017. This is your host, Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing this story for you. Today we have a return of Rose Lemberg, whose story "Stalemate" was published in episode 7. This is the last story for the Winter 2017 issue, and Spring 2017 is right around the corner! We also have a guest reader, Rose Fox, for this episode. Rose Lemberg is a queer, bigender immigrant from Eastern Europe and Israel. Rose's work has appeared in Lightspeed's Queers Destroy Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Unlikely Story, Uncanny, and other venues. Their Birdverse novelette "Grandmother-nai-Leylit's Cloth of Winds" has been nominated for the Nebula Award, and longlisted for the Hugo Award and the Tiptree Award. Rose's debut poetry collection, Marginalia to Stone Bird, is available from Aqueduct Press (2016). Rose can be found on Twitter as @roselemberg, on Patreon at http://patreon.com/roselemberg, and on http://roselemberg.net. Rose Fox is a senior reviews editor at Publishers Weekly and the co-editor (with Daniel José Older) of Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History. They also write Story Hospital, a compassionate, practical weekly advice column about writing, and run occasional workshops for blocked and struggling writers. In their copious free time, they write fanfic and queer romance novels. They live in Brooklyn with two partners, three cats, the world's most adorable baby, and a great many books. How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War by Rose Lemberg At the budget committee meeting this morning, the pen in my hand turns into the remote control of a subsonic detonator. It is familiar—heavy, smooth, the metal warm to the touch. The pain of recognition cruises through my fingers and up my arm, engorges my veins with unbearable sweetness. The detonator is gunmetal gray. My finger twitches, poised on the button. I shake my head, and it is gone. Only it is still here, the taste of blood in my mouth, and underneath it, unnamed acidic bitterness. Around the conference table, the faces of faculty and staff darken in my vision. I see them—aging hippies polished by their long academic careers into a reluctant kind of respectability; accountants neat in bargain-bin clothes for office professionals; the dean, overdressed but defiant in his suit and dark blue tie with a class pin. They’ve traveled, I am sure, and some had protested on the streets back in the day and thought themselves radicals, but there’s none here who would not recoil in horror if I confessed my visions. I do not twitch. I want to run away from the uncomplicated, slightly puffy expressions of those people who'd never faced the battlefield, never felt the ground shake, never screamed tumbling facedown into the dirt. But I have more self-control than to flee. When it comes my time to report, I am steady. I concentrate on the numbers. The numbers have never betrayed me. At five PM sharp I am out of the office. The airy old space is supposed to delight, with its tall cased windows and the afternoon sun streaming through the redwoods, but there’s nothing here I want to see. I walk briskly to the Downtown Berkeley BART station, and catch a train to the city. The train rattles underground, all stale air and musty seats. The people studiously look aside, giving each other the safety of not-noticing, bubbles of imaginary emptiness in the crowd. The mild heat of bodies and the artificially illuminated darkness of the tunnel take the edge off. When I disembark at Montgomery, the sky is already beginning to darken, the edges of pink and orange drawn in by the night. I could have gotten off at Embarcadero, but every time I decide against it—the walk down Market Street towards the ocean gives me a formality of approach which I crave without understanding why. My good gray jacket protects against the chill coming up from the water. The people on the street—the executives and the baristas, the shoppers and the bankers—all stare past me with unseeing eyes. They shipped us here, I remember. Damaged goods, just like other states shipped their mentally ill to Berkeley on Greyhound buses: a one-way ticket to nowhere, to a place that is said to be restful and warm in the shadow of the buildings, under the bridges, camouflaged from this life by smells of pot and piss. I am luckier than most. Numbers come easy to me, and I look grave and presentable in my heavy jackets that are not armor. Their long sleeves hide the self-inflicted scars. I remember little. Slivers. But I still bind my chest and use the pronoun they, and I wear a tight metal bracelet on my left arm. It makes me feel secure, if not safe. It’s only a ploy, this bracelet I have found, a fool’s game at hope. The band is base metal, but without any markings, lights, or familiar pinpricks of the signal. Nothing flows. No way for Tedtemár to call, if ever Tedtemár could come here. Northern California is where they ship the damaged ones, yes, even interstellars. Nights are hard. I go out to the back yard, barren from my attempts at do-it-yourself landscaping. Only the redwood tree remains, and at the very edge, a stray rose bush that blooms each spring in spite of my efforts. I smoke because I need it, to invoke and hold at bay the only full memory left to me: the battlefield, earth ravished by heaving and metal, the screech and whoosh of detonations overhead. In front of me I see the short, broad figure of my commanding officer. Tedtemár turns around. In dreams their visor is lifted, and I see their face laughing with the sounds of explosions around us. Tedtemár's arms are weapons, white and broad and spewing fire. I cannot hear anything for the wailing, but in dreams, Tedtemár's lips form my name as the ground heaves. I have broken every wall in my house, put my fist through the thinness of them as if they're nothing. I could have lived closer to work, but in this El Cerrito neighborhood nobody asks any questions, and the backyard is mine to ravage. I break the walls, then half-heartedly repair them over weekends only to break them again. At work I am composed and civil and do not break anything, though it is a struggle. The beautiful old plaster of the office walls goes gritty gray like barracks, and the overhead lights turn into alarms. Under the table I interlace my fingers into bird's wings, my unit's recognition sign, as my eyes focus resolutely on spreadsheets. At home I repair the useless walls and apply popcorn texture, then paint the whole thing bog gray in a shade I mix myself. It is too ugly even for my mood, even though I’ve been told that gray is all the rage with interior designers these days. I put my fist through the first wall before the paint dries. Today, there is music on Embarcadero. People in black and colorful clothing whirl around, some skillfully, some with a good-natured clumsiness. Others are there simply to watch. It’s some kind of a celebration, but I have nothing to celebrate and nothing to hope for, except for the music to shriek like a siren. I buy a plate of deep-fried cheese balls and swallow them, taste buds disbelieving the input, eyes disbelieving the revelry even though I know the names of the emotions expressed here. Joy. Pleasure. Anticipation. At the edge of the piers, men cast small nets for crabs to sell to sushi bars, and in the nearby restaurants diners sip wine and shiver surreptitiously with the chill. I went out to dates with women and men and with genderfluid folks, but they have all avoided me after a single meeting. They are afraid to say it to my face, but I can see. Too gloomy. Too intense. Too quiet. Won't smile or laugh. There is a person I notice among the revelers. I see them from the back—stooped, aloof. Like me. I don’t know what makes me single them out of the crowd, the shape of the shoulders perhaps. The stranger does not dance, does not move; just stands there. I begin to approach, then veer abruptly away. No sense in bothering a stranger with—with what exactly? Memories? I cannot remember anything useful. I wish they'd done a clean job, taken all my memories away so I could start fresh. I wish they'd taken nothing, left my head to rot. I wish they'd shot me. Wish I'd shoot myself, and have no idea why I don't, what compels me to continue in the conference rooms and in the overly pleasant office and in my now fashionably gray house. Joy or pleasure are words I cannot visualize. But I do want—something. Something. Wanting itself at least was not taken from me, and numbers still keep me safe. Lucky bastard. I see the stranger again at night, standing in the corner of my backyard where the redwood used to be. The person has no face, just an empty black oval filled with explosives. Their white artificial arms form an alphabet of deafening fire around my head. The next day I see them in the shape of the trees outside my office window, feel their movement in the bubbling of Strawberry Creek when I take an unusual lunch walk. I want, I want, I want, I want. The wanting is a gray bog beast that swallows me awake into the world devoid of noise. The suffocating safe coziness of my present environment rattles me, the planes and angles of the day too soft for comfort. I press the metal of my bracelet, but it is not enough. I cut my arms with a knife and hide the scars old and new under sleeves. I break the walls again and repaint them with leftover bog gray, which I dilute with an even uglier army green. Over and over again I take the BART to Embarcadero, but the person I seek is not there, not there when it’s nearly empty and when it’s full of stalls for the arts and crafts fair. The person I seek might never have existed, an interplay of shadows over plastered walls. A co-worker calls to introduce me to someone; I cut her off, sick of myself and my well-wishers, always taunting me in my mind. In an hour I repent and reconsider, and later spend an evening of coffee and music with someone kind who speaks fast and does not seem to mind my gloom. Under the table, my fingers lace into bird’s wings. I remember next to nothing, but I know this: I do not want to go back to the old war. I just want—want— I see the person again at Montgomery, in a long corridor leading from the train to the surface. I recognize the stooped shoulders and run forward, but the cry falls dead on my lips. It is not Tedtemár. Their face, downturned and worn, betrays no shiver of laughter. They smell unwashed and stale and their arms do not end in metal. The person does not move or react, like the others perhaps-of-ours I’ve seen here over the years, and their lips move, saying nothing. I remember the date from the other day, cheery in the face of my silence. But I know I have nothing to lose. So I cough and I ask. They say nothing. I turn away to leave, when out of the corner of my eyes I see their fingers interlock to form the wings of a bird. Imprudent and invasive for this world, I lay my hand on their shoulder and lead them back underground. I buy them a BART ticket, watch over them as even the resolutely anonymous riders edge away from the smell. I take them to my home in El Cerrito, where broken walls need repair, and where a chipped cup of tea is made to the soundtrack of sirens heard only in my head. The person holds the cup between clenched fists and sips, eyes closed. I cannot dissuade them when they stand in the corner to sleep, silent and unmoving like an empty battle suit. At night I dream of Tedtemár crying. Rockets fall out of their eyes to splash against my hands and burst there into seeds. I do not understand. I wake to the stranger huddled to sleep in a corner. Stray moonrays whiten their arms to metal. In the morning I beg my guest to take sustenance, or a bath, but they do not react. I leave them there for work, where the light again makes mockery of everything. Around my wrist the fake bracelet comes to life, blinking, blinking, blinking in a code I cannot decipher, calling to me in a voice that could not quite be Tedtemár’s. It is only a trick of the light. At home I am again improper. The stranger does not protest or recoil when I peel their dirty clothes away, lead them into the bath. They are listless, moving their limbs along with my motions. The sudsy water covers everything—that which I could safely look at and that which I shouldn’t have seen. I will not switch the pronouns. When names and memories go, these bits of language, translated inadequately into the local vernacular, remain to us. They are slivers, always jagged slivers of us, where lives we lived used to be. I remember Tedtemár’s hands, dragging me away. The wail of a falling rocket. Their arms around my torso, pressing me back into myself. I wash my guest’s back. They have a mark above their left shoulder, as if from a once-embedded device. I do not recognize it as my unit’s custom, or as anything. I wanted so much—I wanted—but all that wanting will not bring the memories back, will not return my life. I do not want it to return, that life that always stings and smarts and smolders at the edge of my consciousness, not enough to hold on to, more than enough to hurt—but there’s an emptiness in me where people have been once, even the ones I don’t remember. Was this stranger a friend? Their arms feel stiff to my touch. For all their fingers interlaced into wings at Montgomery station, since then I had only seen them hold their hands in fists. Perhaps I’d only imagined the wings. I wail on my way to work, silent with mouth pressed closed so nobody will notice. In the office I wail, open-mouthed and silent, against the moving shades of redwoods in the window. For once I don’t want takeaway or minute-meals. I brew strong black tea, and cook stewed red lentils over rice in a newly purchased pot. I repair the broken walls and watch Tedtemár-who-is-not-quite-Tedtemár as they lean against the doorway, eyes vacant. I take them to sleep in my bed, then perch on the very edge of it, wary and waiting. At night they cry out once, their voice undulating with the sirens in my mind. Hope awakens in me with that sound, but then my guest falls silent again. An older neighbor comes by in the morning and chats at my guest, not caring that they do not answer—like the date whose name I have forgotten. I don’t know if I’d recognize Tedtemár if I met them here. My guest could be anyone, from my unit or another, or a veteran of an entirely different war shipped to Northern California by people I can’t know, because they always ship us here, from everywhere, and do not tell us why. Work’s lost all taste and color, what of it there ever was. Even numbers feel numb and bland under my tongue. I make mistakes in my spreadsheets and am reprimanded. At night I perch again in bed beside my guest. I hope for a scream, for anything; fall asleep in the silent darkness, crouched uncomfortably with one leg dangling off to the floor. I wake up with their fist against my arm. Rigid fingers press and withdraw to the frequency of an old alarm code that hovers on the edge of my remembrance. In darkness I can feel their eyes on me, but am afraid to speak, afraid to move. In less than a minute, when the pressing motion ceases and I no longer feel their gaze, I cannot tell if this has been a dream. I have taken two vacation days at work. I need the rest, but dread returning home, dread it in all the different ways from before. I have not broken a wall since I brought my guest home. Once back, I do not find them in any of their usual spots. I think to look out of the kitchen window at last. I see my stranger, Tedtemár, or the person who could be Tedtemár—someone unknown to me, from a different unit, a different culture, a different war. My commanding officer. They are in the back yard, on their knees. There’s a basket by their side, brought perhaps by the neighbor. For many long minutes I watch them plant crocuses into the ravaged earth of my yard. They are digging with their fists. Their arms, tight and rigid as always, seem to caress this ground into which we’ve been discarded, cast aside when we became too damaged to be needed in the old war. Explosives streak past my eyelids and sink, swallowed by the clumps of the soil around their fists. I do not know this person. I do not know myself. This moment is all I can have. I open the kitchen door, my fingers unwieldy, and step out to join Tedtemár. END “How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War" was originally published in Lightspeed's Queers Destroy Science Fiction issue in June 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 on April 18th with a GlitterShip original and our Spring 2017 issue!
Cooking with Closed Mouths by Kerry Truong A gumiho could run faster than shadows spread, but since Ha Neul doubted that Americans would take kindly to a nine-tailed fox streaking down Los Angeles’ busy streets, they opted to walk to the bus stop in the falling darkness after work. The cool night air was a relief after the hot confines of Mrs. Chang’s restaurant, where Ha Neul had spent the day carrying heavy dishes and enduring customers’ complaints. Mrs. Chang’s mediocre food attracted few customers, and her refusal to use air conditioning made those who did come disinclined to be generous. Ha Neul never told her this, of course, because what was the point of trying to change people’s ways? For this silence they were rewarded with meager wages and leftovers that turned to ashes in their mouth. Full transcript after the cut. ----more---- [Intro music plays] Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip, episode 35 for March 22, 2017. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. Our story this week is a GlitterShip original: “Cooking with Closed Mouths" by Kerry Truong. Kerry Truong writes about many things, including folktale and horror. Their hobbies are futilely trying to train their dogs; tearing their hair out while reading comics; and eating good food. They like their meat rare, and if a story doesn’t mention food at least once, it wasn’t written by them. You can follow their queer firebreathing on Twitter @springbamboos. We also have a guest reader! R Chang hails from a small valley on the West coast, where they moonlight as an artist. Their dearest wish in life is to quit their day job and establish a farm for dogs. Cooking with Closed Mouths by Kerry Truong A gumiho could run faster than shadows spread, but since Ha Neul doubted that Americans would take kindly to a nine-tailed fox streaking down Los Angeles’ busy streets, they opted to walk to the bus stop in the falling darkness after work. The cool night air was a relief after the hot confines of Mrs. Chang’s restaurant, where Ha Neul had spent the day carrying heavy dishes and enduring customers’ complaints. Mrs. Chang’s mediocre food attracted few customers, and her refusal to use air conditioning made those who did come disinclined to be generous. Ha Neul never told her this, of course, because what was the point of trying to change people’s ways? For this silence they were rewarded with meager wages and leftovers that turned to ashes in their mouth. Today was no different. After mediating between Mrs. Chang and angry customers, Ha Neul was finally left in peace, a bag of banchan the only payment for their troubles. They stood at the bus stop in a crowd of other commuters, careful to remain at the edges where they could go unnoticed but still hear the conversations around them. There was chatter about everything from peace in Viet Nam to some boxing championship or another. Ha Neul didn’t understand the voracious interest humans showed in things that would only fade from memory or repeat themselves in a matter of years. Still, they liked listening. There was something comforting about the way humans kept going, as full of energy as if they were the first to experience these things. When the bus arrived, Ha Neul boarded in a stream of other passengers, shouldering their way through until they could find a place to stand. Proximity filled their nose with the tang of everyone around them and made their stomach clench. They ignored it, used to the hunger. Instead of thinking about it, they studied the people closest to them. An older woman stood next to them in the aisle, her eyes drifting closed as if the lurch and stop of the bus were a lullaby. A pair of students on their other side consulted each other in urgent voices about what songs to put on a mixtape for a crush. Ha Neul listened with amusement. It must be nice, they thought, to be caught up in the rhythm of falling in and out of love; to hope over and over that warmth could be found in the clasp of another person’s hand. At home, Hana was waiting for them, her homework fanned out on the kitchen table. Their one-bedroom apartment was too small for a proper desk, and neither of them had much use for the kitchen’s traditional function, so Hana had claimed it as her study room. The table was often strewn with books and papers and half-chewed pens. Ha Neul had given up on putting the mess into any kind of order. No matter how hard they tried, the table would be cluttered again within the day. Hana waved when they came in. “Took you long enough to get home! Did Mrs. Chang give you food again?” Ha Neul nodded, searching for an empty spot to set the bag down. After a moment they gave up and simply handed it to Hana. “All mine, and none for oppa,” she sang. Ha Neul sat down next to her as she searched through the bag, their body heavy from exhaustion. They relaxed in the warmth of the kitchen, watching as Hana tasted each banchan in turn. She was eager to try them all, which was why Ha Neul always accepted Mrs. Chang’s leftovers. It didn’t matter if the food couldn’t make her full. It reminded her of home, of a life where she’d had family and people to belong to. Ha Neul’s stomach clenched again. They went to the refrigerator and opened it. It was nearly empty, except for the large plastic bag dominating the center shelf and several plastic cartons arranged in neat rows beside it. Ha Neul brought the bag to the table. “Oppa, don’t you dare get blood on my homework,” Hana said as they stacked books and papers to clear a space on the table. “I would never sully the homework of a top student.” Ha Neul took a package wrapped in butcher paper out of the bag and set it on the table. The paper was damp in spots, its white color stained pink by the blood that seeped through it. The tang that Ha Neul had smelled on the bus filled their nose again, this time richer and deeper. Hana stopped eating to watch, her eyes intent. She could smell the blood, too. They unwrapped the paper to reveal hearts, kidneys, slices of liver, and other organ meats, raw and glistening. Ha Neul ate a heart, ripping the muscle with their sharp teeth. It was savory, satisfying them in a way Mrs. Chang’s food never could, making them crave for more. They reached for a piece of liver as soon as they’d finished the heart. It was good to be home. Hana was still watching them. They thought they could see the hint of a fang beginning to protrude in the corner of her mouth, but when they offered her a kidney she waved it away. “I’m not into solid food.” Ha Neul raised an eyebrow, looking at the banchan. “That’s different. I eat that for fun, not to get full.” “Can you really taste it?” “A little. It’s really faint though, like when you have a cold and can only get an aftertaste.” Ha Neul didn’t understand, having never had a cold. They nodded anyway. “Do you remember what human food tastes like?” Hana looked wistful. “I think I’m forgetting. I know that hotteok are sweet and kimchi jjigae is spicy, but even though I know the words I don’t remember the taste.” She must be nearing forty, but time hadn’t changed the smoothness of her skin or the roundness of her face. If there was one thing that aged her, it was her eyes. They were too knowing. It was only now, with her longing so apparent, that she seemed exactly the high school student that she pretended to be. Ha Neul had known that longing. It had been food that first drew them to humans, after all. So many colors and textures: thick, greasy noodles coated in black bean sauce, kimbap dotted with yellow, green, and orange vegetables, cream-colored crab meat marinated in soy sauce. They supposed it was harder for Hana, though, having actually known what human food tasted like. Reaching over, they squeezed her hand. Hana squeezed their hand back and smiled at them. “How’s your food, oppa?” “Delicious.” “It’s still weird to me how you eat cows and not humans. Isn’t it unsatisfying?” “It’s a good enough substitute.” When reduced to their innards, humans and cows weren’t very different, Ha Neul thought, and offal was easy to get from the butcher for no more than a few cents. Hana trailed a finger through the blood that had congealed on the paper, then licked it off. “You know you’re welcome to come find dinner with me any night.” The food soured in Ha Neul’s mouth. Being hungry around humans was one thing, eating them was another. Thinking about it made them feel ill. “I don’t eat humans anymore,” they said, allowing their voice to get sharp. Hana bit her lip, looking chastised. Ha Neul felt guilty, but they’d told her often enough that they didn’t want to be goaded about their eating habits. They’d tried living as a human long ago, hoping to discover the taste of other food. But a gumiho is a fox at heart, its human appearance a mere illusion, and Ha Neul’s hunger had only grown with each dish they’d eaten. It was all ash. In the end, they’d given into their hunger, only to be horrified by the uniform redness. They’d stopped eating humans by the time they met Hana. She should have known better than to tease them about it. Ha Neul worried that she would sulk, but instead she rummaged through her backpack and brought out a flyer. “Here,” she said, sliding it across to Ha Neul. Her voice was light, the previous subject waved away. “Talking about food reminded me of this. I don’t think I can wiggle my way out of it.” Ha Neul chewed on a piece of liver and read the flyer. It was printed on daffodil yellow paper, the words on it thick, black, and followed by multiple exclamation points. Cartoonish pictures of rice bowls and tacos surrounded the text. “A cultural diversity lunch? What exactly are the students supposed to learn from that?” “How to appreciate other people’s cultures, I guess. Mr. Hanson says we should start learning about diversity in high school.” “I understand that, but why food?” “Because people like food, obviously. We’re all supposed to bring in one dish from our culture.” “What do you want to bring in?” They stared at the pictures of rice bowls. Did her teacher expect her to bring in rice? Even Ha Neul knew that plain rice didn’t make a meal. Hana answered without hesitation. “Kimchi fried rice.” They couldn’t help laughing at her confidence. “And where in the world are we going to get that?” Hana smiled. She was prettiest like that, which was exactly why she smiled widest if she needed a favor. “I was going to ask if Mrs. Chang could make it.” Ha Neul’s answer was as ready as hers had been. “Mrs. Chang is busy and has no money to make kimchi fried rice for free.” “She doesn’t even have to make that much. There are only twenty students in my class.” “Isn’t that still a lot?” Hana pouted. “Please, oppa? I don’t want to be embarrassed. What if everyone else brings something fancy and I don’t have anything?” There was that longing again, not as obscured by the pout as she thought it was. Ha Neul didn’t understand. Food was food, so what did it matter if she brought banchan or kimchi fried rice? But they could see how happy this simple thing would make her, and that mattered. She was their sister by choice, the only person who wanted to share the partial life they led. “All right, I’ll ask Mrs. Chang. Even if she says no, we’ll figure something out. Does that sound good?” “Oh, oppa, I knew I could count on you!” She threw her arms around Ha Neul, startling them. After a beat, they remembered to lift their own arms and hug her back. They held her close, taking comfort in the gesture that was at once strange and warm. Many years ago, on a warm spring night in Korea, Ha Neul had heard a cry of despair. If they had ignored that cry, they might still be living in Korea, trying to find a way to fit into the jumbled new pattern that the war had created. But they had listened, and that was how they’d found Hana, blood on her shirt and two bite marks on her neck. They couldn’t abandon her to that despair. Instead, they had held their hand out and said come, there is still a way to live. So the two of them had lived, as best as they could, side by side for more than twenty years. When they had decided to go to America, it made the most sense to claim that they were siblings. They’d argued about who should be the elder. Ha Neul had won her over by pointing out that if they were her older brother, they could support her while she went to school. The papers had been made, and the two of them had moved to Los Angeles to join the number of Korean immigrants building a new life along Olympic Boulevard. While Hana finished her last year in high school and dreamed about college admissions, Ha Neul waited tables and lifted boxes, letting Mrs. Chang speak to them as if they were a child. It didn’t matter to them whether Mrs. Chang’s food was good or not. They couldn’t taste any of it, after all. They were content seeing the variety of colors in her kitchen. She, in turn, was grateful for someone who stayed in spite of her temper and the customers’ insults. Ha Neul hoped that her gratefulness would soften her to their request. They made sure to be of extra help in the restaurant the day after Hana showed them the flyer, lifting heavy pots off the stove and chatting with customers until the bad food was forgotten. The restaurant was never busy, and once the lunch hour had passed it was empty. Mrs. Chang used the time to eat her own late lunch. Ha Neul joined her, choking down the rice and drinking cup after cup of tea. They waited until most of the food was gone before saying, “Mrs. Chang, can I ask you a favor?” Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps she thought they would ask for money. Still, her voice was not unkind when she answered. “What is it?” “My sister’s teacher asked her to bring in a dish from her culture for a class project. I was wondering if you could make the food.” “What kind of food?” “Kimchi fried rice.” Mrs. Chang sighed and shook her head. “I don’t think I have the time for that, Ha Neul.” It was the answer they’d expected, but they were still disappointed. “It’s not too difficult to make, is it? I’ll even work extra hours in the restaurant in exchange for it.” “After a whole day of cooking, do you think I’d have the energy to make more food for a bunch of children? I have my own family to take care of once I’m done here.” She stood up and stacked the empty dishes to take back into the kitchen. “Mrs. Chang, please.” “I already said no!” Ha Neul stood up as she started walking back to the kitchen. “Then at least teach me how to make it.” She turned around. “What was that?” Food is food, Ha Neul thought, and food was only ash in their mouth. But they’d promised Hana that they would help her. “Teach me how to cook, Mrs. Chang. If I learn, then I can help you in the kitchen, too.” She studied them for a moment. They wondered if they looked desperate, if it was that or the promise of help that made her say, “All right then. But I don’t want to hear any complaints because it’s too hard, understand?” “Oh, perfectly,” Ha Neul said, and followed her into the kitchen, already questioning the wisdom of learning how to cook without taste. Hana’s luncheon was in a week, and in that week Ha Neul dedicated themself to learning how to cook. The radio in the kitchen played Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder songs as Mrs. Chang showed Ha Neul how to make galbi and gamjatang, kimbap and gyeranjjim. Although she wasn’t an unkind teacher, she was also not gentle. Ha Neul disliked the way she grabbed their hand to show them how to chop vegetables, or how she would take the ladle from them to taste soup. They learned quickly, however, and their dishes soon looked the same as Mrs. Chang’s. They began to take their own pleasure with food, relishing in the clean crack that split an egg and the feel of rice grains slipping through their fingers. Taste was lost to them, but they could still see, and hear, and feel. The first dish they brought out to customers, however, fared no better than any of Mrs. Chang’s. “Do you call this samgyetang?” asked a middle-aged woman with tightly permed hair. Ha Neul had known she would be trouble the moment she’d walked in. Something about her pinched mouth had foreshadowed grief. Putting on a practiced smile, they said, “I’m sorry if the soup isn’t good. Should I bring you something else?” “Nothing you brought is any good. The banchan isn’t even seasoned well!” Ha Neul bit their tongue, even though their hands ached from chopping meat and mixing seasoning. Before they could regain the patience to smile, however, the woman sighed. “Forget it. I’m sorry. It’s just been a long time since I had a good meal, and I thought I’d find it here.” Ha Neul studied how deep the wrinkles on her face ran, how calloused her hands were. They wondered how long she had been in America, and what kind of dishes she had the energy to make after a long day of work. Did she have family to care for? When was the last time she’d eaten something someone else made for her? The woman got her wallet and began counting out bills. Before she could set them on the table, Ha Neul said, “I’m sorry, but could you tell me how you’d like the food to be seasoned?” Later, Mrs. Chang told them that they had too little pride. “You listen too much to other people’s complaining.” Ha Neul just laughed, and she looked at them as she often did, like something strange and half unwanted. Still, they kept listening to the complaints. They memorized how much sesame oil to add and how long meat should stay in the pan. They noted the exact shade of orange that carrots turned when they were tender but not limp, and the translucence of onions that would be just sweet enough. The complaints lessened and more customers began to come to the restaurant, brought in by word of mouth. Mrs. Chang talked of giving Ha Neul a raise. They heard the hesitance in her voice and declined. It was enough to spend time in the kitchen while Mrs. Chang served the customers, her temper improved by their praises. Soon, Ha Neul became the kitchen’s only occupant. They preferred it that way, with only the radio to keep them company. This much of human food they had mastered, and they were content to stay in the confines of the kitchen for a long time, basking in its vivid colors. The day before Hana’s potluck, Ha Neul stopped by a supermarket on the way home. They returned to the apartment laden with plastic bags. The kitchen table was as messy as ever, but there was no sign of Hana. No doubt she was out getting food. They cleared the kitchen table, making room for the ingredients they’d bought from the supermarket. The stove, which had been untouched since they moved in, flared to life without protest. They made rice, and while the water bubbled and spit, they sliced kimchi and diced Spam. They didn’t like Spam. Its sickly pink color reminded them of red watered down, and it slid out of the can with a slither that made them shudder. But it was cheap and Hana liked it, so they tipped the diced ham into the pan without looking at it. Steam filled the air. Ha Neul made more than enough kimchi fried rice for Hana’s classmates, then set aside a little extra for her when she came back. It was dark when Hana returned home. She was wearing a green polka dot dress, her hair in a ponytail. There was blood on her. Ha Neul could smell it as soon as she walked through the door, and their stomach clenched. “I’m in the kitchen,” they called out to her. She walked in, the scent of blood following her. It pervaded the kitchen, making Ha Neul forget, for a moment, the food on the stove. Their stomach growled and their mouth ran dry. They hadn’t eaten all day. “Oppa, you’re cooking!” Hana said, coming up next to them. They focused on the rice in the pan, stirring it to mix the kimchi and Spam evenly. The Spam had darkened to a deep pink. “Of course I am. Unless I’m mistaken, your potluck is tomorrow.” “You look like a professional chef.” They smiled in spite of the smell of blood in their nose. “Your compliment is appreciated. Now go wash your hands. I made some for you to eat tonight.” Hana clapped her hands and ran to do as they said. By the time she came back, the scent of blood had eased, and Ha Neul could hand her the bowl of kimchi fried rice without their hand trembling. “How is it?” they asked as she began to eat. She closed her eyes and chewed. Ha Neul knew she could barely taste it, but there was happiness on her face. “It’s delicious, oppa. I know it is.” They couldn’t smell the blood anymore. Ha Neul felt the warmth of the kitchen again, the steam in the air. They watched Hana eat, a little longing mixed with their pleasure in her enjoyment. The two of them would have made a proper family if only Ha Neul could sit down and eat with her. But if Hana was content with only the hint of flavor, then they were content with only this, its reflection. They turned back to the stove, and shut it off. On the morning of Hana’s potluck, Ha Neul carried a tin foil tray of kimchi fried rice to her bus stop, handing it to her carefully before running to catch their own bus. A disheveled man with a hoarse voice harangued passengers about sinning as the bus crawled its way down Wilshire, and the couple in front of Ha Neul argued in whispers, almost hissing as each accused the other of infidelity. Ha Neul listened with half an ear, looking out the window at the Ford Pintos inching past and the dusty haze that made everything outside glow. The restaurant was dark and cool, not yet overheated by the stoves. Ha Neul put the chairs in place and wiped the tabletops while Mrs. Chang chatted with her sister, who had joined them for the day. The sister had arrived in America only the week before, and Mrs. Chang was eager to have someone who knew the same people she did and shared the same hopes for this new life. Ha Neul didn’t interrupt their conversation, dreaming instead about the food they would make that day: the chill of the soy sauce on their skin, the true red of gochujang dark against the silver of the spoon, the steam beading their face in sweat whenever they lifted the lid off a pot. No customers complained that day, and Mrs. Chang sent Ha Neul home with more galbi and banchan than usual. Ha Neul had made the food, but they chose to feel kindly towards Mrs. Chang for her generosity. At home, Hana was waiting for them. The tin foil tray sat next to her on the table, still burdened with its food. It was bent slightly out of shape. Bits of rice flecked the tabletop around it. Hana’s mouth was pursed tightly, but it quivered when Ha Neul asked her, “What’s wrong?” “They said it smelled bad and made fun of me for eating Spam. What do they know? I could eat them instead!” Ha Neul knew she would have cried, if she could. They sat down next to her, some vice grip squeezing their chest. For Hana’s sake, they smiled. “I’d advise against it. They probably don’t taste good.” “They’re ungrateful punks. You worked so hard to make this and they wouldn’t even eat it.” “I am hardly insulted by the bad taste of children a fraction my age.” Hana wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, a habit she still hadn’t unlearned. Whenever she was angry or upset, her hand went to her eyes as if there were still tears to stem. Ha Neul took her hand and squeezed it. Her skin was dry and smooth, eroded by neither time nor care. In that respect, she was different from her classmates and everyone else around her. It was hard to remember that difference, however, when she was squeezing Ha Neul’s hand so tightly, looking for comfort after a hurt that should have been slight. After a moment she said, “I wanted to eat this fried rice.” Ha Neul squeezed her hand again. “You can eat all of it now, if you want.” “No, I wanted to really eat it. I wanted it to taste like kimchi fried rice should, to make me full.” Hana stomped to the drawers and came back with a plastic spoon. “Even though those little ingrates can eat, they won’t make use of it.” She dug into the rice hard enough to bend the flimsy plastic and began eating. Another layer of sadness settled over Ha Neul, heavy and thick as the smog that pervaded Los Angeles. They should have listened to their own advice from the beginning: food was food. How could it teach people anything? Perhaps for Hana’s classmates, the kimchi fried rice was not a sign of comfort and family, but of something else entirely. Perhaps some of their fox’s nature made its way into the dish, marking it as something fearful. “I’m sorry.” They felt useless with only those words for comfort. “It’s not your fault, oppa.” The two of them sat in silence as Hana ate. Ha Neul knew she could finish the whole tray. It wouldn’t make her full, after all. They sat and watched her, trying to imagine what it tasted like and only remembering the crunch of the kimchi under their knife, the splash of red over white rice, the Spam glistening pinkly before they’d thrown it in the pan. Things which were only parts of the whole, not enough to fill the quiet of this kitchen. Ha Neul wanted, as they hadn’t in years, to take a spoonful of food and taste it. But they knew, even before they finished the thought, that it would be nothing but ash. All they could do was say, “I’ll make you as much food as you want.” Hana smiled, and though the corners of her mouth lifted, her expression didn’t brighten. She looked her age. “Even if I’ll never be able to tell how good it is?” “Of course.” They thought about the colors of different ingredients, the textures under their hands. No matter what other people thought, they didn’t want to forget any of that. As long as Hana wanted food they would cook, and the two of them would keep trying, again and again, to discover taste in the warmth of this kitchen. END “Cooking with Closed Mouths” is copyright Kerry Truong, 2017. This recording is a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license which means you can share it with anyone you’d like, but please don’t change or sell it. Our theme is “Aurora Borealis” by Bird Creek, available through the Google Audio Library. You can support GlitterShip by checking out our Patreon at patreon.com/keffy, subscribing to our feed, or by leaving reviews on iTunes. Thanks for listening, and I’ll be back soon with a reprint of "How to Remember to Forget to Remember the Old War” by Rose Lemberg.
Edition #1068 Today we take a look back to 2007 in our second annual 10-years-hence retrospective spectacular! Be part of the show! Leave a message at 202-999-3991 Show Notes Ch. 1: Opening Theme: A Fond Farewell - From a Basement On the Hill Ch. 2: Act 1: First female Speaker of the House - Countdown - Aired on BotL 1-9-07 Ch. 3: Song 1: Color in Your Cheeks - The Mountain Goats Ch. 4: Act 2: First muslim in congress and first female Speaker - The Young Turks - Aired on BotL 1-9-07 Ch. 5: Song 2: Sir Duke - Stevie Wonder Ch. 6: Act 3: Bernie Sanders moves to the Senate - Ring of Fire - Aired on BotL 3-6-07 Ch. 7: Song 3: Common Sense - Justin Mcroberts Ch. 8: Act 4: Special comment on free speech - Countdown - Aired on BotL 1-19-07 Ch. 9: Song 4: The More Things Change - Bon Jovi Ch. 10: Act 5: Making the pitch - The Daily Show - Aired on BotL 1-22-07 Ch. 11: Song 5: Smiley Faces - Gnarls Barkley Ch. 12: Act 6: Radio audience wants to mark the muslims - The Young Turks - Aired on BotL 1-19-07 Ch. 13: Song 6: Nazi (Live) - Chumbawamba Ch. 14: Act 7: Bush's health care proposal - The Al Franken Show - Aired on BotL 2-10-07 Ch. 15: Song 7: We've Gotta Get Out of This Place - The Animals Ch. 16: Act 8: Michael Moore on Sicko, Nixon and the rise of HMOs - Democracy Now - Aired on BotL 8-17-07 Ch. 17: Song 8: Richard Nixon - Rod & The MSR Singers Ch. 18: Act 9: Fighting for health care for kids - Associated Press - Aired on BotL 10-22-07 Ch. 19: Song 9: N/A Ch. 20: Act 10: Minimum wage - Unknown source - Aired on BotL 2-23-07 Ch. 21: Song 10: Minimum Wage - They might be giants Ch. 22: Act 11: Republicans blocking a vote on the minimum wage - Ted Kennedy - Aired on BotL 2-23-07 Ch. 23: Song 11: Minimum Wage - They might be giants Ch. 24: Act 12: Overview of Scooter Libby case - Unknown - Aired on BotL 4-17-07 Ch. 25: Song 12: N/A Ch. 26: Act 13: Interview with Joe Wilson after Libby verdict - Countdown - Aired on BotL 4-17-07 Ch. 27: Song 13: Everybody's Gone To War - Nerina Pallot Ch. 28: Act 14: We need to torture Alberto Gonzales - Colbert Report - Aired on BotL 4-29-07 Ch. 29: Song 14: N/A Ch. 30: Act 15: Saying goodbye to Alberto Gonzales - The Young Turks - Aired on BotL 9-12-07 Ch. 31: Song 15: The Czar of Munster - Seamus Egan Ch. 32: Act 16: McKibben at Step it Up 07 Part 1 - CCAN - Aired on BotL 4-20-07 Ch. 33: Song 16: The Czar of Munster - Seamus Egan Ch. 34: Act 17: McKibben at Step it Up 07 Part 2 - CCAN - Aired on BotL 4-20-07 Ch. 35: Song 17: Living planet - Emma’s Revolution Ch. 36: Act 18: Jerry Falwell dies - Democracy Now - Aired on BotL 6-7-07 Ch. 37: Song 18: N/A Ch. 38: Act 19: Introduction to Obama - The world tonight - Aired on BotL 5-7-07 Ch. 39: Song 19: Dreamtime - Uberzone Ch. 40: Act 20: Hillary votes for war - The Young Turks - Aired on BotL 10-02-07 Voicemails Ch. 41: Call in from Chris the Carpenter and Parker - Cape Cod, MA Voicemail Music: Loud Pipes - Classics Ch. 42: Final comments on the time I quit the show and the community kept it going Closing Music: Here We Are - Everyone's in Everyone Produced by Jay! Tomlinson Thanks for listening! Visit us at BestOfTheLeft.com Check out the BotL iOS/Android App in the App Stores! Follow at Twitter.com/BestOfTheLeft Like at Facebook.com/BestOfTheLeft Contact me directly at Jay@BestOfTheLeft.com Review the show on iTunes and Stitcher!
Good Old War Interview by KTRU Rice Radio
Good Old War's new album, Broken Into Better Shape, was just released a few weeks ago, but it's already in contention for one of my favorite albums of the year. Combining the band's knack for picture-perfect folk with a newly tuned melodic precision, songs like "Never Gonna See Me Cry" and "Tell Me What You Want From Me" seem destined to find a home on a radio dial near you. But this is the culmination of years of hard work for the Philadelphia-based band; rising from the ashes of Fueled By Ramen act Days Away, Good Old War have been making music together since 2008 and have released four studio albums. They also serve as Circa Survive singer Anthony Green's backing band, which, as you'll hear in this episode, allows them to step outside of the classic Good Old War sound and embrace some weirder tendencies. I caught up with Dan just shortly before the release of Broken Into Better Shape to chat about the band's history, how their work with Green impacts how they approach making music with Good Old War, why you should never give up on an idea, and much more. Thanks for listening! ---------- Good Old War's Website | Twitter | Facebook Broken Into Better Shape on iTunes Voice & Verse Podcast on iTunes | Stitcher | Twitter | Facebook
Host Ronen Kauffman talks to CHRIS FARREN and DEREK PERRY of FAKE PROBLEMS about pop music, the death of the old music industry, keeping art relevant and much more. Includes an acoustic performance of "HeartBPM" and "Mr. Rock and Roll Role" (unreleased). Then Ronen welcomes performances from GOOD OLD WAR and MANSIONS. Also, the second installment of Justin Brannan, A Person Familiar With The Matter - hosted by Justin Brannan (MOST PRECIOUS BLOOD, INDECISION).
Host Ronen Kauffman talks to CHRIS FARREN and DEREK PERRY of FAKE PROBLEMS about pop music, the death of the old music industry, keeping art relevant and much more. Includes an acoustic performance of "HeartBPM" and "Mr. Rock and Roll Role" (unreleased). Then Ronen welcomes performances from GOOD OLD WAR and MANSIONS. Also, the second installment of Justin Brannan, A Person Familiar With The Matter - hosted by Justin Brannan (MOST PRECIOUS BLOOD, INDECISION).
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