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Merritt, A.

The Pool of the Stone God

For those of you who will not be spending the weekend dressed scandalously and behaving just as badly, or scaring young children, or throwing personal hygiene product in the trees of your enemies, here’s a quick little bit of badinage to keep you in the mood.

Note: includes an outburst of wicked laughter. You’re welcome.

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Categories
Carter, Angela

The Lady of the House of Love

Andrea was kind enough to suggest and supply a sufficiently Halloweeny bit of ghoulishness to reconcile the setback of temporary lack of access to mine own troves. In the hopes of exponentially increasing the sympathy factor, let it be known that in addition to being without books, the chief operating offices of Miette’s bedtime have been largely internet-free for the past weeks, in what would, under normal circumstances, leave a girl like me a little mildewy-eyed, save for the fact that, when I -do- find myself at Some Wretched Faceless Coffeechain Conglomerate, I log on to find fresh stories, and letters, and other epistolary well-wishes from the likes of you, and thank you for it.

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Gilman, Charlotte Perkins

The Yellow Wallpaper

From over here, Evie says:

I would like to recommend “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. It has to be my favorite short story… no matter how many times I read it it still gives me the chills!

To which Miette replies: your wish, my command, and about those chills, have you ever tried to read it aloud? It’s utterly skin-crawling. Of course, I’ve already read the Virginia Woolf story with a similar (though not -quite- as resplendent with crawling-skin heebies) narrative structure.

I was just the other day staring at the ceiling in my own bedroom, and could’ve sworn it was comprised really of thousands of cats, trying to escape the two-dee flatlands of the ceiling. And while at the time I attributed that vision to… the detritus of some decisions of my youth … given the evidence put forth by Woolf and Gilman, I’m in pretty good company for textured wall hallucinations. Anyone else ever stare at their walls until they go stereoscopic?

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Woolrich, Cornell

It Had To Be Murder (part 2)

Yes, I have mighty big arms to give myself such a massive self-congratulatory bearhug, but, you know, I’m entitled, it’s my special day. And so, here are a couple of things I am considering for my next one hundred podcasts:

— podcast in Estonian
— serialise a novel (eh, a short one)
— go back to a very low-tech setup, maybe not using a microphone at all, maybe just screaming and telling you all to lean your heads out your windows at the same time.
— on-screen accompaniment of the text
— sell out commercially and insert product placement for leading beverage companies into the stories
— create an interpretive dance troupe based on the content of these podcasts

You see? We’ve so much distance yet to travel together. Fun!

This is PART TWO (part 1 below)

Valerie, Sebastien, Scott, Philip, Miette, Marc, Jen, Hugh, Heidi, Dream, Ben, and Alex’s Bedtime Story PodCAST.

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Woolrich, Cornell

It Had To Be Murder (part 1)

I began scheming for the one hundredth podcast several weeks ago, thinking that I’d gather all the voices that were most important to me, personally and podcastionally, share the wealth and spread the love, and, let’s be honest, go soak on a beach in a land where all the drinks are pink, while all my friends hang out in the trenches of pops and hisses.

But what I got back from my various requests, at all sorts of sound levels and all levels of craziness (at least, auditorily speaking), a veritable catalogue of every variety of background buzz, white noise, and telephony thrum… well, it’s rather perfect (or so I think, and I’m the lord of this podcast, so that’s the law here.)

Of course, very few of my lovely readers have voices that might be mistaken for mine, but otherwise: there are glasses clinking, there are sirens, from time to time there’s an inner-ear-awakening pop, there’s a dog barking, and there’s even a classic Miette moment (patent-pending) of a lost-page expletive (thank you; it made my day). And while the unedited transitions between variance of white noise may be jarring, if you listen a little more closely, perhaps it will be for you like it is for me, approximating the feeling of being told a bedtime story by a dozen crazy uncles and aunts, the kind who let you watch horror movies and eat pancakes for dinner.

Alex, Ben, Dream, Heidi, Hugh, Jen, Marc, Miette, Philip, Scott, Sebastien, and Valerie’s Bedtime Story PodCAST

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