Listen. In the Blood by Masimba Musodza The urge to drink was strong, but there was nothing stronger to drink in the office than water. Batsi Makoni gulped down half a bottle before realising how refreshing, how calming it actually was. She stared at the bottle as if in wonderment, then at the rest of the displayed contents of the open fridge. The water had definitely cooled her down enough for her to sit at her desk and think. Leave the yoghurt and the cheese and the ice-cream and the cake alone. For now. It was late in the afternoon. From outside drifted the slow progress of down town Harare's traffic. The window behind her looked over Africa Unity Square. From somewhere within the huge edifice that housed her suite of offices emanated the gentle whirr of a copier. Mundane, familiar sounds. The assurance of continuity and comfort. But her eyes fell on the folders on her desk, and the shock that had seized her moments earlier began to return. Full Story The Devil's Advocates by Ivor W. Hartmann 'The contents (sealed after these words of introduction), have been painstakingly pieced together from ancient data records. These records handed down the ages as inert sacred relics of another era, were preserved somewhat unwittingly, yet propitiously, by our order. After recognising that the relics were, in fact, ancient data storage devices, it has taken us fifty long years to reconstruct the technology, necessary to access them. Whilst the records are severely damaged, I do believe there is enough surviving, coherent content, to discern the nature of the events described.' Full Story Yesterday's Dog by Masimba Musodza It had been It had been a long drive, and Stanley was beginning to doze off. Harare was less than 20 kilometres away on the Mutare Road. The radio was not working, and he had exhausted the four tracks that made up the only CD, why did Zimbabwean record companies sell these as albums? And the air-conditioning wasn't working, leaving him at the mercy-or the lack-of the October heat. He would have gladly stopped somewhere, but the need to get to Chitungwiza was urgent. Already, the sky to the west was tinged with mauve. Stanley had shut his mind from the outside scenery. So, when the man appeared on the road, he seemed to have materialised from another dimension of his consciousness, an apparition from a half-remembered and not very comforting dream. Full Story Kennedy by Emmanuel Sigauke The entrance to Kubatana was dotted with scantily-dressed women and peanut vendors, a curious combination about which I shook my head as we entered the flood-lit bar. 'Tonight youll see a side of me that will blow your mind away,' said Mukoma, my big brother. 'What hes saying is that he has something important to tell you,' explained Jakove, his friend. 'And to show you,' added Mukoma. The beer hall was crowded. Shouting men waved at us. Mukoma and Jakove waved back at acquaintances scattered in the swaying crowd, where loud music competed with the loudest of voices. Full Story The Land of Darkly: Act Four When Harabladi disembarked from the gondola that evening, well staggered whilst Hacktar kept him upright by holding the scruff of his jacket, he felt nothing. Well not nothing, his body screamed at him all manner of abuse and his brain felt like a large bowl of pulsing cold porridge, but he felt not the beady red eyes of Grom, not even the merest twinge. For a moment, he wondered if perhaps that last heavy blow his skull endured from Hacktar was the one that finally shook something loose, permanently. Then he felt that familiar twinge, not like Grom, no that had its own unique suicidal butterflys kind of twinge, but definitely someone with ill intent towards him. Unable to deal, as he could barely see blearily, with any one or thing right now he chose the safest course of action. Hacktar barely paused as he felt Harabladi go limp and quickly whipped him up onto his giant-tortoise large shoulder. Full Story The Land of Darkly: Act Three Mrs Perkins, and her husband, Mr Perkins-Fiddle, were lying, snoring, in the shade of a large oak tree. They were halfway between the city of Darkly, and the village of Krep, which lay nearly three leagues south of the south gate of the city. They were thus at the four-mile marker, which itself lay in the shade of the large oak tree, a fact that made giving directions a hit-and-miss affair, since four-mile-markers were all there were, and the marker itself was nearly invisible in the shade. Full Story The Land of Darkly: Act Two The prince, in the meantime, went to his chambers for a lie down to recover from his meeting with his mother. Gelmernia, his manservant and best friend, awaited him with a cup of tea, and a cup of something else that glowed blue and occasionally released a bubble into the air of the expansive suite, where it would drift until encountering something solid like a wall or a window. After etching away part of the wall or the window, the bubble would pop and release an extremely noxious smell into the air. Full Story The Land of Darkly: Act One The king was in his counting-house, counting out his money - well, he was watching Fittle, his oldest and most trusted servant, count out his money. And, to make things even clearer, they were only counting out the NEW money. The rest of the money had already been counted and stored on the shelves around them, which stretched into the darkness surrounding the King and Fittle where they sat at the counting table. They had encircled the counting tables with candles, lamps, and few roaring torches - ostensibly to see better, but really because, of all the rooms in the Royal Castle, this was the one the King liked the least. Full Story Less

Listen. Earth Rise by Ivor W. Hartmann No matter how many times he prayed, pleaded, begged and screamed, Thomas Church could not die. Desperate scrabbling fingers and toes early measured his kingdom of darkness - a coffin of rough pine that needled deep before it wore smooth. He rubbed the silky wood, tracing the grain, and almost missed the agony of a sliver pierced between fingernail and flesh. Thomas had no awareness of time. Instead, he nurtured memories of light. A time before the six-walled kingdom that laid his body flat beneath the earth. Sometimes he laughed until the laughter took control and battered him against the silent boards. Full Story Last In Line by Bruce M. Menin You've all seen the picture. They say it was once the biggest selling postage stamp in American history. I don't know this for a fact, although it may be true - selling is something that my white brothers know a great deal about. That isn't bitterness; I know that I have none. It is just something that is true. They sell; The People have always bartered or given. I helped raise the flag on Iwo Jima. Twice. One time with my friends who died and once for the press photographer. Like I said, you have all seen the picture. I am the last one in the line, the picture taken just after I had let go of my part of the flagpole. The People are always the last ones in line. Full Story Men Don't Cry by Adesola Orimalade I switched on the television and was greeted by the sight of a man who was crying his heart out. The tears rolled as he recounted the horror of seeing members of his family killed by a mob protesting the results of the election in Kenya. 'A man is not meant to cry' The words rang very quietly in my ears and my mind wandered to a time in the past. It was a few days to Christmas; that time of year when school is closed and children can spend the whole time at play. Full Story All Good Boys Learn Their Lesson by John Zur Let us call him Bobby Jefferies. Bobby Jefferies is like any other sixteen-year-old boy. He drinks with his friends, he smokes with his friends, and he is the epitome of a good son in front of his parents, Frank and Susan Jefferies. Bobby thinks he is playing the game better than anyone else. Bobby also hates the adult cliché that states that he is one of the teenage subscribers to the notion that he is invincible. Quite the opposite is what holds true. Bobby is a good boy. Bobby is the good son of Frank and Susan and he knows when to behave. He also knows when to deceive his parents and himself. He knows when to act out and become a rebellious soldier in the war of adolescence. Full Story Bad News Travels Quickly by Adesola Orimalade The cock raised its red crowned head and crowed loudly. In the quiet early morning, it roused men from deep sleep, ushering in a new day. A man sitting on the now worn wooden stool, his wrapper carefully wound around his robust frame, he heard it too. The sun was still trying to shoot out its rays over the early morning clouds. He could hear men and women passing by his window heading to their farms, but he just sat there and stared into space. In the palm of his left hand, he held firmly a small open pint-size calabash filled with rich foamy palm wine filled to the brim. By the side of his bare feet rested a soccer-ball-sized gourd filled with the same substance. Full Story The Suburban Neighborhood by John Zur The gloaming came in after daylight's death and wandered about throughout the homes while the families slept comfortably in their beds. The children were tucked in and dreamed of captaining pirate ships through periwinkle seas of graying skies and washing ashore on the tops of watermelon mountains. They snuggled their woven blankets with tattered ends and saw personified animals in the ceiling and pixie spies under windowsills. They spoke to their imaginary friends and took hints from the carpetbaggers' ghosts passing through.Full Story The Blue Flower Mountain by Ivor W. Hartmann The waning sunlight glimmered softly through tall ethereal gum trees that waved in zephyrs, crisp from snow capped mountains. A narrow red earth dirt strip road sliced languidly ahead into Fynbos foothills. A small blue sign fat nail hammered onto a termite mud encrusted crumbling pole, jutted out from the wild grasses roadside. Neatly painted in elegant white script it spelt out the name, 'Bloublommitijies Kloof', or Blue Flower Mountain. Full Story Less

The earth's surface is no longer habitable. All humanity is sequestered beneath the ground, couched in isolation and contentment. The Machine provides the needs of humanity. It's E.M. Forster, today, on The Classic Tales Podcast. Less

Join Brandon Sanderson as he talks about writing the Mistborn series and completing Robert Jordan’s A Memory of Light. Sanderson’s final book in the Mistborn trilogy, The Hero of Ages, was released by Tor in October. A Memory of Light is currently expected to be released Fall 2009. (Part 2 of 2) Less

Join Brandon Sanderson as he talks about writing the Mistborn series and completing Robert Jordan’s A Memory of Light. Sanderson’s final book in the Mistborn trilogy, The Hero of Ages, was released by Tor in October. A Memory of Light is currently expected to be released Fall 2009. (Part 1 of 2) Less

Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Palatino Linotype"; panose-1:2 4 5 2 5 5 5 3 3 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536870009 1073741843 0 0 415 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.MsoBodyTextIndent, li.MsoBodyTextIndent, div.MsoBodyTextIndent {margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-indent:.5in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Palatino Linotype"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} The pages of The Jungle Book are opened, and a wild mongoose fights tooth and nail with deadly cobras. Itâs Rudyard Kipling, today, on The Classic Tales Podcast. Less

Bram Stoker takes us to his world of vampires, wolves and crypts. This tale takes place near Munich on Walpurgis Night. Walpurgis Night has its origin in German folklore. It coincides with April 30, or May Dayâs Eve, when it was held that witches met on the Brocken mountain and kept communion with the Devil. Less

Listen. Earth Rise by Ivor W. Hartmann No matter how many times he prayed, pleaded, begged and screamed, Thomas Church could not die. Desperate scrabbling fingers and toes early measured his kingdom of darkness - a coffin of rough pine that needled deep before it wore smooth. He rubbed the silky wood, tracing the grain, and almost missed the agony of a sliver pierced between fingernail and flesh. Thomas had no awareness of time. Instead, he nurtured memories of light. A time before the six-walled kingdom that laid his body flat beneath the earth. Sometimes he laughed until the laughter took control and battered him against the silent boards. Full Story Last In Line by Bruce M. Menin You've all seen the picture. They say it was once the biggest selling postage stamp in American history. I don't know this for a fact, although it may be true - selling is something that my white brothers know a great deal about. That isn't bitterness; I know that I have none. It is just something that is true. They sell; The People have always bartered or given. I helped raise the flag on Iwo Jima. Twice. One time with my friends who died and once for the press photographer. Like I said, you have all seen the picture. I am the last one in the line, the picture taken just after I had let go of my part of the flagpole. The People are always the last ones in line. Full Story Men Don't Cry by Adesola Orimalade I switched on the television and was greeted by the sight of a man who was crying his heart out. The tears rolled as he recounted the horror of seeing members of his family killed by a mob protesting the results of the election in Kenya. 'A man is not meant to cry' The words rang very quietly in my ears and my mind wandered to a time in the past. It was a few days to Christmas; that time of year when school is closed and children can spend the whole time at play. Full Story All Good Boys Learn Their Lesson by John Zur Let us call him Bobby Jefferies. Bobby Jefferies is like any other sixteen-year-old boy. He drinks with his friends, he smokes with his friends, and he is the epitome of a good son in front of his parents, Frank and Susan Jefferies. Bobby thinks he is playing the game better than anyone else. Bobby also hates the adult cliché that states that he is one of the teenage subscribers to the notion that he is invincible. Quite the opposite is what holds true. Bobby is a good boy. Bobby is the good son of Frank and Susan and he knows when to behave. He also knows when to deceive his parents and himself. He knows when to act out and become a rebellious soldier in the war of adolescence. Full Story Bad News Travels Quickly by Adesola Orimalade The cock raised its red crowned head and crowed loudly. In the quiet early morning, it roused men from deep sleep, ushering in a new day. A man sitting on the now worn wooden stool, his wrapper carefully wound around his robust frame, he heard it too. The sun was still trying to shoot out its rays over the early morning clouds. He could hear men and women passing by his window heading to their farms, but he just sat there and stared into space. In the palm of his left hand, he held firmly a small open pint-size calabash filled with rich foamy palm wine filled to the brim. By the side of his bare feet rested a soccer-ball-sized gourd filled with the same substance. Full Story The Suburban Neighborhood by John Zur The gloaming came in after daylight's death and wandered about throughout the homes while the families slept comfortably in their beds. The children were tucked in and dreamed of captaining pirate ships through periwinkle seas of graying skies and washing ashore on the tops of watermelon mountains. They snuggled their woven blankets with tattered ends and saw personified animals in the ceiling and pixie spies under windowsills. They spoke to their imaginary friends and took hints from the carpetbaggers' ghosts passing through.Full Story The Blue Flower Mountain by Ivor W. Hartmann The waning sunlight glimmered softly through tall ethereal gum trees that waved in zephyrs, crisp from snow capped mountains. A narrow red earth dirt strip road sliced languidly ahead into Fynbos foothills. A small blue sign fat nail hammered onto a termite mud encrusted crumbling pole, jutted out from the wild grasses roadside. Neatly painted in elegant white script it spelt out the name, 'Bloublommitijies Kloof', or Blue Flower Mountain. Full Story Less

Listen. The Devil's Advocates by Ivor W. Hartmann 'The contents (sealed after these words of introduction), have been painstakingly pieced together from ancient data records. These records handed down the ages as inert sacred relics of another era, were preserved somewhat unwittingly, yet propitiously, by our order. After recognising that the relics were, in fact, ancient data storage devices, it has taken us fifty long years to reconstruct the technology, necessary to access them. Whilst the records are severely damaged, I do believe there is enough surviving, coherent content, to discern the nature of the events described.' Full Story Yesterday's Dog by Masimba Musodza It had been It had been a long drive, and Stanley was beginning to doze off. Harare was less than 20 kilometres away on the Mutare Road. The radio was not working, and he had exhausted the four tracks that made up the only CD, why did Zimbabwean record companies sell these as albums? And the air-conditioning wasn't working, leaving him at the mercy-or the lack-of the October heat. He would have gladly stopped somewhere, but the need to get to Chitungwiza was urgent. Already, the sky to the west was tinged with mauve. Stanley had shut his mind from the outside scenery. So, when the man appeared on the road, he seemed to have materialised from another dimension of his consciousness, an apparition from a half-remembered and not very comforting dream. Full Story Kennedy by Emmanuel Sigauke The entrance to Kubatana was dotted with scantily-dressed women and peanut vendors, a curious combination about which I shook my head as we entered the flood-lit bar. 'Tonight youll see a side of me that will blow your mind away,' said Mukoma, my big brother. 'What hes saying is that he has something important to tell you,' explained Jakove, his friend. 'And to show you,' added Mukoma. The beer hall was crowded. Shouting men waved at us. Mukoma and Jakove waved back at acquaintances scattered in the swaying crowd, where loud music competed with the loudest of voices. Full Story The Land of Darkly: Act Four When Harabladi disembarked from the gondola that evening, well staggered whilst Hacktar kept him upright by holding the scruff of his jacket, he felt nothing. Well not nothing, his body screamed at him all manner of abuse and his brain felt like a large bowl of pulsing cold porridge, but he felt not the beady red eyes of Grom, not even the merest twinge. For a moment, he wondered if perhaps that last heavy blow his skull endured from Hacktar was the one that finally shook something loose, permanently. Then he felt that familiar twinge, not like Grom, no that had its own unique suicidal butterflys kind of twinge, but definitely someone with ill intent towards him. Unable to deal, as he could barely see blearily, with any one or thing right now he chose the safest course of action. Hacktar barely paused as he felt Harabladi go limp and quickly whipped him up onto his giant-tortoise large shoulder. Full Story The Land of Darkly: Act Three Mrs Perkins, and her husband, Mr Perkins-Fiddle, were lying, snoring, in the shade of a large oak tree. They were halfway between the city of Darkly, and the village of Krep, which lay nearly three leagues south of the south gate of the city. They were thus at the four-mile marker, which itself lay in the shade of the large oak tree, a fact that made giving directions a hit-and-miss affair, since four-mile-markers were all there were, and the marker itself was nearly invisible in the shade. Full Story The Land of Darkly: Act Two The prince, in the meantime, went to his chambers for a lie down to recover from his meeting with his mother. Gelmernia, his manservant and best friend, awaited him with a cup of tea, and a cup of something else that glowed blue and occasionally released a bubble into the air of the expansive suite, where it would drift until encountering something solid like a wall or a window. After etching away part of the wall or the window, the bubble would pop and release an extremely noxious smell into the air. Full Story The Land of Darkly: Act One The king was in his counting-house, counting out his money - well, he was watching Fittle, his oldest and most trusted servant, count out his money. And, to make things even clearer, they were only counting out the NEW money. The rest of the money had already been counted and stored on the shelves around them, which stretched into the darkness surrounding the King and Fittle where they sat at the counting table. They had encircled the counting tables with candles, lamps, and few roaring torches - ostensibly to see better, but really because, of all the rooms in the Royal Castle, this was the one the King liked the least. Full Story Less

Listen "I am against silence, the books I write try to undo the silent posture African women have endured over so many decades...” -Yvonne Vera. Yvonne was born in 1964 and raised in Zimbabwe’s second largest city Bulawayo during British colonial and then Rhodesian minority oppression. Though Yvonne was somewhat graced by her families prominent status, her father was a prosperous well connected businessman and her uncle a former local football star and manager of a top hotel. Together they were both politically involved and friends of Joshua Nkomo who would become a pivotal figure in the 2nd Chimurenga or Zimbabwean Liberation Struggle. Her mother was a school teacher and early on extended her love of books over to her daughter to take up the mantle. Yvonne did so and between them they convinced her father to find a way and successfully obtain an adult library card when she was twelve in the “Whites Only” main Bulawayo library. Yvonnes parents did not go unrewarded by their attentions and she became a top mark student at Mzilikazi High graduated with a rack of A levels and went on to do the same at Hillside Teacher Training school . Yvonnes first teaching position was at Njube High where she met her soon to be husband John Jose a maths teacher from Canada . This was to prove a pivotal point in Yvonnes life for through their growing friendship John would invite her to Canada , and she would honour that invitation. On the third visit to Toronto Yvonne and John married and Yvonne began to attend York University . In only eight years Yvonne completed her undergraduate, masters and PhD degree’s and during her masters discovered her true joy and talent was writing. Diagnosed with HIV in 1989 Yvonne undeterred and perhaps motivated by began writing short stories. These would grow in to an astounding collection which became her first published book Why Don’t You Carve Other Animals in 1992 released by Tsar Press, a Canadian independent publisher. With this collection of vivid lucid short stories Yvonne would set the landscape for her future novels. In writing Yvonne consciously and carefully sought to openly and honestly break what she perceived as the crushing enforced silence of her Zimbabwean countrymen for the last 100 years. When colonisation first occurred Yvonne believed that the ancient flow of oral traditions that held history, myth and legend were silenced by white oppression. Yvonne sought to bring these traditions alive again and be a voice for the silent to now emerge and once more bring the storyteller to prominence in society. In 1993 through her first novel Nehanda, Yvonne affirmed her pledge and gave voice to the life and times of Mbuya Nehanda Charwe Nyakasikana, who led the first uprising against colonial rule in 1896. A legend in her own time Mbuya Nehanda was the spiritual leader of the Shona people, Nehanda is was the name given to the Lion Spirit who was originally the daughter of the first King of the great Munhumutapa Empire, Mutota Nyatsimba. Charwe Nyakasikana was bestowed this name when she became Nehanda Charwe Nyakasikana and was considered to be the female incarnation of the oracle spirit Nyamhika Nehanda Lion Spirit. Mbuya Nehanda together with Mukwati and Kaguvi two other spiritual leaders, instigated the 1st Chimurenga or uprising. After two unsuccessful attempts Mbuya and Kaguvi were captured in 1897, a photograph was taken by the British to display their success abroad and both were executed by hanging shortly after. It was this photograph that survived time and found its way to Yvonne, who upon viewing it was reminded of her grandmothers stories and the reverence with which all Zimbabwean still hold for Mbuya Nehanda. It was the actions of Mbuya Nehanda that would lead 73 years later, to the ten year 2nd Chimurenga war of independence that culminated in victory and independence of Zimbabwe in 1980 when Yvonne was sixteen. Taking on the mantle of a true storyteller Yvonne unflinchingly wove a tale around Mbuya Nehanda creating a legend that wove between mythology and fact. In her unique style Yvonne through Nehanda began a literary voyage that would cut to the bone to reveal the absurdity of many long standing inequities against and within her own people. “...Our forefathers crafted a language (Shona) that made it difficult to address these contentious issues. In African culture, for example, to talk to my father, I bow. If I am announcing that somebody has died, I use a particular language, a particular tone...so as to convey the message. But for subjects like incest and rape...you are not allowed to mention it. Even to your mother, who must pantomime the news if she tells your aunt.”- Yvonne Vera Without A Name, was published in 1994 and gained Yvonne critical international acclaim by winning the Commonwealth Writers Prize for Africa and the Zimbabwean Publishers Literary Award. During this time she taught at Trent University until 1995 when she returned home to Bulawayo . Two years later in 1997 Yvonne released her third book Under The Tongue, through Baobab Books in Zimbabwe . That same year she was named Director of the National Gallery of Zimbabwe in Bulawayo . But she continued to write and in 1998 released Butterfly Burning through Baobab. Two years later Farrar, Straus and Giroux publishers in America reprinted Butterfly Burning with international distribution. Butterfly Burning gained a widespread fame and became required reading and study in many university literary courses, and was awarded The German Literature Prize. 2002 also saw the release of her fourth and sadly last novel The Stone Virgins. Yvonne by 2002 had developed full blown AIDS and was stricken by an ever worsening immune deficiency related outbreaks. The Stone Virgins won the Macmillan Writers Prize for Africa later that year and undeterred as usual, Yvonne set to work on her new novel Obedience dictating to John as she lay in bed to weak to rise. Her fortitude took the upper hand and she seemed by 2003 to be on the way to a full recovery, but in April 2004 she was struck by a virulent meningitis with her condition rapidly deteriorating John flew her to specialist care in Toronto. Aided by the care and John she began to once more recover and started work again on Obedience, but the meningitis relapsed and on the day her mother arrived from Zimbabwe, Yvonne Vera on the 24th of March 2005 finally succumbed to a 16 year adversary, and died in hospital at the age of 40. Yvonne Vera leaves behind a legacy in her novels, short stories and many essays. In reading her works you can see she stuck firmly to her initial intent set out with Why Dont You Carve Other Animals and ending in The Stone Virgins. Though her writing she sought to expose and illuminate all aspects of life and if they were considered taboo she did not flinch but persisted in revealing the truth. This applies to her very style of writing in which she broke and flaunted all manner of traditional forms to create a world that taught directly through the experience of reading it alone. All Yvonnes works depict a rich and multifaceted world that questioned everyone and everything sparring with no quarter in the true timeless voice of the storyteller. Though there can be no other like Yvonne Vera, her voice will go onward and all who listen will be forever changed by that journey. For Yvonnes writing demands full participation and cuts through the barriers of disassociation to leave the reader marked and changed by the experience. So like our storyteller ancestors of past when Yvonne leaves our village to pass on her story in another place, what she leaves behind does change the fabric of our society. This article was written By Ivor W. Hartmann at The IWH Inquirer. Less

 The contents are divulged of Dr. Jeckyllâs final confession, and âThe Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hydeâ is concluded. Less

Ragu and I finally get down to business and discuss Eclipse, by Stephenie Meyer (www.stepheniemeyer.com). This week's episode features music by Dave King:  "Dreams."  (http://www.davekingmusic.com/)   Less

Murder has a face. It has a hollow darkness in the eyes, and a course rasping in the throat. It wears a tense skin around angular bones, and stoops with a twist in his back. For Henry Jeckyll, Murder wears the face of Edward Hyde. The Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde, continued, on The Classic Tales Podcast. Less

If you're watching this episode and don't know what a LOLcat is, that's going to France and not knowing what's inside an escargot shell. But never fear, we try to 'splain it to you in the first few moments so that everyone, n00bs and all, can have fun at the LOLzoo! Creators of the wonderfully funny icanhascheezburger site met up in San Francisco's animal habitat to celebrate the publication of their book, for which they had to cull through millions of images of LOLcats so you can enjoy them in the comfort of your own home. GETV was on hand to interview hoomans and animals to get their thoughts on all kinds of issues -- language, domiciles, noms and LOLs! Less