It Could Happen Here - CZM Book Club: "The Damned Thing" by Ambrose Bierce

Episode Date: October 20, 2024

Margaret reads you the story she figures probably inspired Predator.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Curious about queer sexuality, cruising, and expanding your horizons? Hit play on the sex-positive and deeply entertaining podcast, Sniffy's Cruising Confessions. Join hosts Gabe Gonzalez and Chris Patterson Rosso as they explore queer sex, cruising, relationships, and culture in the new iHeart podcast, Sniffy's Cruising Confessions. Sniffy's Cruising Confessions will broaden minds and help you pursue your true goals.

You can listen to Sniffy's Cruising Confessions, sponsored by Gilead, now on the iHeartRadio app or wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes every Thursday. Welcome to Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get real and dive straight into todo lo actual y viral. We're talking música, los premios, el chisme, and all things trending in my cultura. I'm bringing you all the latest happening in our entertainment world and some fun and impactful interviews with your favorite Latin artists, comedians, actors, and influencers. Each week, we get deep and raw life stories, combos on the issues that matter to us, and

it's all packed with gems, fun, straight up comedia, and that's a song that only nuestra gente can sprinkle. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season digging into tech's elite and how they've turned Silicon Valley into a playground for billionaires. From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google Search, Better Offline get your podcasts from. 2025 iHeart Podcast Awards are coming. This is the chance to nominate your podcast for the industry's biggest award.

Submit your podcast for nomination now at iHeart.com slash podcast awards. But hurry, submissions close on December 8th. Hey, you've been doing all that talking. It's time to get rewarded for it. Submit your podcast today at iHeart.com slash podcast awards. That's iHeart.com slash podcast awards. That's iHeart.com slash podcast awards.

On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, five-year-old Cuban boy Elian Gonzalez was found off the coast of Florida. And the question was, should the boy go back to his father in Cuba? Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or stay with his relatives in Miami? Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. It's the Cool Zone Media Book Club Spooky Month Edition. I'm your host, Margaret Kiljoy. The Cool Zone Media Book Club is zone media book club spooky month edition i'm your host parker killjoy the cool zone media book club is the only book club where you don't have to do the reading because i do it for you there's other book clubs where people probably do the reading for you

but did i do the reading for you no someone else did. Anyway, this month on Book Club, I'm going to read spooky stories. And this spooky story is another one I'm excited about. Because this one, I'm convinced is where the Predator comes from. It never even occurred to me that the movie Predator had a precursor. But I think I've found it. And maybe other people have other ideas, like the people who made Predator. I don't know, whatever. I just find this story interesting. This story is called The Damned Thing. And it was written in 1898 by Ambrose Bierce. Who's Ambrose Bierce, you might ask? Well, if you lived in 1898,

you would have known who Ambrose Bierce is, because like a lot of the people that we cover, fame is fickle and doesn't always last. Ambrose Bierce was like, kind of the contemporary of Edgar Allan Poe and like one of the great spooky story writers of American history, but he's not talked about as much today, which is a shame because he spent five years fighting against slavery. In fact, when this kid was a kid and he was only 15 years old, he went and worked at an abolitionist newspaper. And then when the war broke out, he went and and fought but he spent most of the rest of his life being like hey war is pretty terrible he wasn't like oh man glory that stuff's cool you know and he went on to influence just about everyone and then in terms of spooky stories in the year 1913

he wrote a letter to a friend saying he was like, gonna go to Mexico to see the Mexican revolution. And then he disappeared. No one's ever heard from him since. And realistically, he probably died somehow in that conflict. He was in his early 70s. But who knows? Maybe he's a vampire. I think everyone's a vampire. This story, The Damned Thing, is from 1898. I already told you that. It's split into four sections. One. By the light of the tallow candle, which had been placed on one end of a rough table, a man was reading something written in a book. It was an old account book, greatly worn, and the writing was not, apparently,

very legible, for the man sometimes held the page close to the flame of the candle to get a stronger light upon it. The shadow of the book, then, would throw into obscurity a half of the room, darkening a number of faces and figures, for, besides the reader, eight other men were present. Seven of them sat against the rough log walls, silent and motionless, and, the room being small, not very far from the table. By extending an arm, any one of them could have touched the eighth man, who lay on the table, face upward, partly covered by a sheet, his arms at his sides. He was dead. The man with the book was not reading aloud, and no one spoke. All seemed to be waiting for something to occur. The dead man only was

without expectation. From the blank darkness outside came in, through the aperture that served for a window, all the ever-unfamiliar noises of night in the wilderness. The long, nameless note of a distant coyote, the stilly, pulsing thrill of tireless insects and trees, strange cries of night birds so different from those of the birds of the day, Strange cries of night birds, so different from those of the birds of the day. The drone of great blundering beetles, and all that mysterious chorus of small sounds that seem always to have been half heard when they have suddenly ceased, as if conscious of an indiscretion. But nothing of all of this was noted in that company.

Its members were not overmuch addicted to the idle interest in matters of no practical importance. That was obvious in every line of their rugged faces, obvious even in the dim light of the small candle. They were evidently men of the vicinity, farmers and woodmen. The person reading was a trifle different. One would have said of him that he was of the world, worldly, albeit there was a hint in his attire which attested to a certain fellowship with the organisms of his environment.

His coat would hardly have passed muster in San Francisco. His footgear was not of urban origin. The hat that lay by him on the floor, he was the only one uncovered, was such that if one had considered it an article of mere personal dormant, he would have missed its meaning. In countenance, the man was rather prepossessing, with just a hint of sternness, though that he may have assumed or cultivated as is appropriate to one in authority, for he was a coroner. It was by virtue of his office that he had possession of the book in which he was reading. It had been found among the dead men's effects, in his cabin where

the inquest was now taking place. When the coroner had finished reading, he put the book into his breast pocket. At that moment the door was pushed open and a young man entered. He, clearly, was not of mountain birth and breeding. He was clad as those who dwell in cities. His clothing was dusty, however, as from travel. He had, in fact, been riding hard to attend the inquest. The coroner nodded. No one else greeted him. We have waited for you, said the coroner. It is necessary to have done with this business tonight. The young man smiled. I am very sorry to have kept you, he said. I went away, not to evade your summons, but to post to my newspaper an account of what I suppose I am called back to relate. The coroner smiled. The account that you posted to your newspaper, he said, differs probably from that which you will give here under oath.

That, replied the other, rather hotly and with a visible flush, is as you choose. I used manifold paper and have a copy of what I sent. It was not written as news, for it is incredible, but as fiction, it may go as a part of my testimony under oath. But you say it is incredible. That is nothing to you, sir, if I also swear that it is true. The coroner was apparently not greatly affected by the young man's manifest resentment. He was silent for some moments, his eyes upon the floor. The men about the sides of the cabin talked in whispers, but seldom withdrew their gaze from the face of the corpse. Presently, the coroner lifted his eyes and said, We will resume the inquest. The men removed their hats.

The witness was sworn. What is your name? The coroner asked. William Harker. Age? Twenty-seven. You knew the deceased, Hugh Morgan? Yes. You were with him when he died? Near him. How did that happen? Your presence, I mean. I was visiting him at this place to shoot and fish. A part of my purpose, however, was to study him and his odd, solitary way of life. He seemed a good model for a character in fiction. I sometimes write stories. I sometimes read them. Thank you. Stories in general, not yours. Some of the jurors laughed. Against a somber background, humor shows high lights. Soldiers in the intervals of battle laugh easily, and a jest in the death chamber conquers by surprise.

Relate the circumstances of this man's death, said the coroner. You may use any notes or memoranda that you please. The witness understood. Pulling a manuscript from his breast pocket, he held it near the candle, and turning the leaves until he found the passage he wanted, he began to read. And what he read was these ads. That's not what he read. But here's some ads anyway, whether you want them or not. podcast for diving deep into the rich world of Black literature. I'm Jack Peace Thomas, and I'm inviting you to join me and a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts dedicated to protecting and celebrating our stories. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audiobooks while commuting or running errands, for those who find themselves seeking solace, wisdom, and refuge between the chapters.

From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture. Together, we'll dissect classics and contemporary works while uncovering the stories of the brilliant writers behind them. Blacklit is here to amplify the voices of Black writers and to bring their words to life. Listen to Blacklit on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season digging into how tech's elite has turned Silicon Valley into a playground for billionaires.

From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google search, better offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose. This season, I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel-winning economists to leading journalists in the field, and I'll be digging into why the products you love

keep getting worse and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong, though. I love technology. I just hate the people in charge and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough. So join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry

and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com. If you love hearing real conversations with your favorite Latin celebrities, artists, and culture shifters, this is the podcast for you. We're talking real conversations with our Latin stars, from actors and artists to musicians and creators, sharing their stories, struggles, and successes. You know it's going to be filled with chisme laughs and all the vibes that you love. Each week, we'll explore everything from music and pop culture to deeper topics like identity, community, and breaking down barriers in all sorts of industries. Don't miss out on the fun, el té caliente, and life stories.

Join me for Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get into todo lo actual y viral. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, a five-year-old boy floated alone in the ocean. He had lost his mother trying to reach Florida from Cuba. He looked like a little angel. I mean, he looked so fresh. And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere.

Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian. Elian. El will make headlines everywhere. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with. His father in Cuba.

Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation. Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Gianna Parente.

And I'm Jimei Jackson-Gadsden. We're the hosts of Let's Talk Offline, the early career podcast from LinkedIn News and iHeart Podcasts. One of the most exciting things about having your first real job is that first real paycheck. You're probably thinking, yay, I can finally buy a new phone. But you also have a lot of questions like, how should I be investing this money? I mean, how much do I save? And what about my 401k? Well, we're talking with finance expert Vivian Toot, aka Your Rich BFF, to break it all down. I always get roasted on the internet when I say this out loud, but I'm like, every single year you need to be asking for a raise of somewhere between 10 to 15%. I'm not

saying you're going to get 15% every single year, but if you ask for 10 to 15 and you end up getting eight, that is actually a true raise. Listen to this week's episode of Let's Talk Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. And we're back. Two. The sun had hardly risen when we left the house. We were looking for quail, each with a shotgun, but we had only one dog. Morgan said that our best ground was beyond a certain ridge that he pointed out,

and we crossed it by a trail through the chaparral. On the other side was a comparatively level ground, thickly covered with wild oats. As we emerged from the chaparral, Morgan was but a few yards in advance. Suddenly, we heard, at a little distance to our right and partly in front, a noise as of some animal thrashing about in the bushes, which we could see were violently agitated. We've started a deer, said I. I wish we had brought a rifle. Morgan, who had stopped and was intently watching the agitated chaparral, said nothing, but he had cocked both barrels of his gun and was holding it in readiness to aim.

I thought him a trifle excited, which surprised me, for he had a reputation for exceptional coolness even in moments of sudden and imminent peril. Oh, come, I said. You are not going to fill up a deer with quail shot, are you? Still, he did not reply, but, catching a sight of his face as he turned it slightly toward me, I was struck by the pallor of it. Then I understood that we had serious business on hand, and my first conjecture was that we had jumped a grizzly. I advanced to Morgan's side, cocking my piece as I moved.

The bushes were now quiet and the sounds had ceased, but Morgan was as attentive to the place as before. What is it? What the devil is it? I asked. That damned thing, he replied without turning his head. His voice was husky and unnatural. He trembled visibly. I was about to speak further when I observed the wild oats near the place of the disturbance moving in the most inexplicable way. I can hardly describe it. It seemed as if they were stirred by a streak of wind, which not only bent it but pressed it down, crushed it so that it did not rise, and this movement was slowly prolonging itself towards us. Nothing that I had ever seen had affected me so strangely as this unfamiliar and unaccountable phenomenon. Yet I am unable to recall any sense of fear. I remember, and tell it here because

singularly enough I recollected it then, that once, in looking carelessly out of an open window, I momentarily mistook a small tree close at hand for one of a group of larger trees at a little distance away. It looked the same size as the others, but being more distinctly and sharply defined in mass and detail seemed out of harmony with them. It was a mere falsification of the law of aerial perspective, but its startled almost terrified me. We so rely on the orderly operation of familiar natural laws that any seeming suspension of them is noted as a menace to our safety, a warning of unthinkable calamity. So now the apparently causeless movement of the herbage and the slow, undeviating approach of the line of disturbance

were distinctly disquieting. My companion appeared actually frightened, and I could hardly credit my senses when I saw him suddenly throw his gun to his shoulders and fire both barrels at the agitated grass. Before the smoke of the discharge had cleared away, I heard a loud, savage cry, a scream like that of a wild animal. And, flinging his gun upon the ground, Morgan sprang away and ran, swiftly from the spot. At the same instant, I was thrown violently to the ground by the impact of something unseen in the smoke, some soft, heavy substance that seemed thrown against me with great force. Before I could get upon my feet and recover my gun, which seemed to have been struck from my hands, I heard Morgan crying out as if in mortal agony, and mingling

with his cries were such hoarse, savage sounds as one hears from fighting dogs. Inexpressibly terrified, I struggled to my feet and looked in the direction of Morgan's retreat, and may heaven and mercy spare me from another sight like that. At a distance of less than thirty yards was my friend, down upon one knee, his head thrown back at a frightful angle, hatless, his long hair in disorder and his whole body in violent movement from side to side, backward and forward. His right arm was lifted and seemed to lack the hand, at least I could see none. The other arm was invisible. At times, as my memory now reports this extraordinary scene, I could discern but a

part of his body. It was as if he had been partly blotted out. I cannot otherwise express it. Then a shifting of his position would bring it all into view again. All this must have occurred within a few seconds. Yet in that time, Morgan assumed all the postures of a determined wrestler, vanquished by superior weight and strength. I saw nothing but him, and him not always distinctly. During the entire incident, his shouts and curses were heard, as if through an enveloping uproar of such sounds of rage and fury as I have never heard from the throat of man or brute. For a moment only, I stood irresolute, then throwing down my gun, I ran forward to my friend's assistance. I had a vague belief that he was suffering from a fit or some

form of convulsion. Before I could reach his side, he was down and quiet. All sounds had ceased, but with a feeling of such horror as even these awful events had not inspired, I now saw the same mysterious movement of the wild oats prolonging itself from the trampled area about the prostate man toward the edge of the wood. It was only when I had reached the wood that I was able to withdraw my eyes and look at my companion. He was dead. 3.

The coroner rose from his seat and stood beside the dead man. Lifting an edge of the sheet, he pulled it away, exposing the entire body, altogether naked and showing in the candlelight a clay-like yellow. It had, however, broad maculations of bluish-black, obviously caused by extravasted blood from contusions. The chest and sides looked as if they had been beaten with a bludgeon. There were dreadful lacerations. The skin was torn in strips and shreds. The coroner moved round to the end of the table and undid a silk handkerchief, which had been passed under the chin and knotted up at the top of the head.

When the handkerchief was drawn away, it exposed what had been the throat. Some of the jurors, who had risen to get a better view, repented their curiosity and turned away their faces. Witness Harker went to the open window and leaned out across the sill, faint and sick. Dropping the handkerchief upon the dead man's neck, the coroner stepped to an angle of the room, and from a pile of clothing produced one garment after another, each of which he held up for a moment of inspection. All were torn and stiff with blood. The jurors did not make a closer inspection. They seemed rather uninterested. They had, in truth, seen all this before, the only thing that was new to them being Harker's testimony. Gentlemen, the coroner said, we have no more evidence, I think. Your duty has been already

explained to you. If there is nothing you wish to ask, you may go outside and consider your verdict. The foreman rose, a tall, bearded man of sixty, coarsely clad. I should like to ask one question, Mr. Coroner,' he said. "'What asylum did this your last witness escape from?' "'Mr. Harker,' said the coroner gravely and tranquilly. "'What asylum did you last escape?' Harker flushed crimson again, but said nothing, and the seven jurors rose and solemnly filed out of the cabin.

"'If you have done insulting me, sir, said Harker, as soon as he and the officer were left alone with the dead man, I suppose I'm at liberty to go? Yes. Harker started to leave, but paused with his hand on the door latch. The habit of his profession was strong in him, stronger than his sense of personal dignity. He turned about and said, The book that you have there, I recognize it as Morgan's diary. You seem greatly interested in it. You read in it while I was testifying. May I see it? The public would like... The book will cut no figure in this matter, replied the official, slipping it into his coat pocket. All the entries in it were made before the writer's death.

As Harker passed out of the house, the jury re-entered and stood about the table, on which the now-covered corpse showed under the sheet with sharp definition. The foreman seated himself near the candle, produced from his breast pocket a pencil and a scrap of paper, and wrote rather laboriously the following verdict, which, with various degrees of effort, all signed. We, the jury, do find the remains come to their death at the hands of a mountain lion, but some of us thinks, all the same, they had fits. You too might have a fit if you don't take advantage of all of the opportunities made to you by our advertisers, whom we love dearly and unironically. for diving deep into the rich world of Black literature. I'm Jack Peace Thomas, and I'm inviting you to join me

in a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts dedicated to protecting and celebrating our stories. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audiobooks while commuting or running errands, for those who find themselves seeking solace, wisdom, and refuge between the chapters. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture. Together, we'll dissect

classics and contemporary works while uncovering the stories of the brilliant writers behind them. Black Lit is here to amplify the voices of Black writers and to bring their words to life. Listen to Black Lit on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hola, mi gente. It's Honey German, and I'm bringing you Gracias, Come Again, the podcast where we dive deep into the world of Latin culture, musica, peliculas, and entertainment with some of the biggest names in the game.

If you love hearing real conversations with your favorite Latin celebrities, artists, and culture shifters, this is the podcast for you. We're talking real conversations with our Latin stars, from actors and artists to musicians and creators sharing their stories, struggles, and successes. You know it's going to be filled with chisme laughs

and all the vibes that you love. Each week, we'll explore everything from music and pop culture to deeper topics like identity, community, and breaking down barriers in all sorts of industries. Don't miss out on the fun, el té caliente, and life stories. Join me for Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get into todo lo actual y viral. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season

digging into how tech's elite has turned Silicon Valley into a playground for billionaires. From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google search, Better Offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose. This season I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel winning economists to the leading journalists in the field, and I'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong though, I love technology, I just hate the people in charge and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough. So join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com.

get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com. On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, a five-year-old boy floated alone in the ocean. He had lost his mother trying to reach Florida from Cuba. He looked like a little angel. I mean, he looked so fresh. And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with. His father in Cuba. Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation.

Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Gianna Parenti. And I'm Jimei Jackson-Gadsden. We're the hosts of Let's Talk Offline, the early career podcast from LinkedIn News and iHeart Podcasts. One of the most exciting things about having your first real job is that first real paycheck. You're probably thinking, yay, I can finally buy a new phone.

But you also have a lot of questions like, how should I be investing this money? I mean, how much do I save? And what about my 401k? Well, we're talking with finance expert Vivian Tu, aka Your Rich BFF, to break it all down. I always get roasted on the internet when I say this out loud,

but I'm like, every single year, you need to be asking for a raise of somewhere between 10 to 15%. I'm not saying you're going to get 15% every single year, but if you ask for 10 to 15 and you end up getting eight, that is actually a true raise. Listen to this week's episode of Let's Talk Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. And we're back. Four. In the diary of the late Hugh Morgan are certain interesting entries, having possibly a scientific value

as suggestions. At the inquest upon his body, the book was not put in evidence. Possibly the coroner thought it not worthwhile to confuse the jury. The date of the first of the entries mentioned cannot be ascertained. The upper right part of the leaf is torn away. The part of the entry remaining is as follows. Would run in a half circle, keeping his head turned always toward the center, and again he would stand still barking furiously. At last he ran away into the brush as fast as he could go. I thought at first that he had gone mad, but on returning to the house found no other alteration in his matter than what was obviously due to fear of punishment. Can a dog see with his nose? Do odors impress some olfactory center with images of the thing

emitting them? September 2nd. Looking at the stars last night as they rose above the crest of the ridge east of the house, I observed them successively disappear from left to right. Each was eclipsed but an instant, and only a few at the same time, but along the entire length of the ridge, all that were within a degree or two of the crest were blotted out. It was as if something had passed along between me and them, but I could not see it, and the stars were not thick enough to define its outline. Ugh, I don't like this. Several weeks' entries are missing,

three leaves being torn from the book. September 27th. It has been about here again. I find evidences of its presence every day. I watched again all of last night in the same cover, gun in hand, double charged with buckshot. In the morning, the fresh footprints were there as before. Yet I would have sworn that I did not sleep. Indeed, I hardly sleep at all. It is terrible, insupportable. If these amazing experiences are real, I shall go mad. If they are fanciful, I am mad already. October 3rd. I shall not go. It shall not drive me away. No, this is my house, my land. God hates a coward. October 5th I can stand it no longer. I have invited Harker to pass a few weeks with me. He has a level head. I can judge from his manner if he thinks me mad. October 7th

I have the solution to the problem It came to me last night Suddenly, as if by revelation How simple, how terribly simple There are sounds that we cannot hear At either end of the scale Are notes that stir no chord Of that imperfect instrument The human ear

They are too high or too grave I have observed a flock of blackbirds Occupying an entire treetop, the tops of several trees, and all in full song. Suddenly, in a moment, at absolutely the same instant, all spring into the air and fly away. How? They could not all see one another, whole treetops intervened. At no point could a leader have been visible to all. There must have been a signal warning or command, high and shrill above the din, but by me unheard. I have observed, too, the same simultaneous flight when all were silent among not only blackbirds but other birds, quail, for example, widely

separated by bushes, even on opposite sides of a hill. It is known to seamen that a school of whales basking or sporting on the surface of the ocean, miles apart with the convexity of the earth between them, will sometimes dive at the same instant, all gone out of sight in a moment. The signal has been sounded, too grave for the ear of the sailor at the masthead and his comrades on the deck, who nevertheless feel its vibrations in the ship as the stones of a cathedral are stirred by the base of the organ. As with sounds, so with colors. At each end of the solar spectrum, the chemist can detect the presence of what are known as actinic rays. They represent colors, integral colors in the composition of light, which we are unable to

discern. The human eye is an imperfect instrument. Its range is but a few octaves of the real chromatic scale. I am not mad. There are colors that we cannot see. Ah, God help me. The damned thing is of such a color. The end. Okay, I like that story. I say this every time. I like that story for a bunch of reasons. But it's true. I like the story for a bunch of reasons. I really like the way it plays with all of these different omniscient narrator,

and then there's the account from the writer, and then there's the journal. Like, all crammed into a pretty short story. But in a way that flows well for me. It doesn't make it like spookier but it makes it more fun or interesting this is this story actually gets classified as science fiction as much as it gets classified as anything else like a ghost story but at the same time it plays with something that people who live in the woods understand

which is that there's just often this sense that there's just something there, you know, and the whole like the dog barking at nothing and the stars went out for a moment and all those things. Those are experiences I've had. And I don't actually think there's a damned thing in the woods is going to get me. And, you know, honestly, like, I don't know. It also like gets at this idea of like camouflage right like talks about the one tree that looked like the other trees and i don't know anyway i just like that story and i like that the author fought a whole ass war to end slavery and you know was pretty interesting so i hope you like it too and not, maybe you'll like next week's. And if you did like this week's, maybe you'll like next week's on cool zone media book club.

Also, I'm on tour right now. I'm reading fables out. Uh, if you are anywhere in the U S there's a decent chance I'll be on tour near you. Unless I already have been, you can go to my sub stack, Margaret killjoy.substack.com. I wrote a whole bunch of folklore set in the same world as The Sapling Cage, which is my new book, and I'm on tour with The Sapling Cage. But I thought rather than read from my book, which would be sort of boring for me, I'm going to read all these fables, which so far I've had good reception with. And eventually I'll read you all the fables on this book club but not yet because i want you to go hear me read them to you in person so you should do that and even the idea of like writing all this folklore honestly it comes from well reading you all all this folklore

because i like old stories and maybe you like them too. All right. Bye. It Could Happen Here is a production of Cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from Cool Zone Media, visit our website, coolzonemedia.com. Or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources for It Could Happen Here updated monthly at coolzonemedia.com slash sources. Thanks for listening. relationships, and culture in the new iHeart podcast, Sniffy's Cruising Confessions. Sniffy's Cruising Confessions will broaden minds and help you pursue your true goals. You can listen to Sniffy's Cruising Confessions, sponsored by Gilead, now on the iHeartRadio app or wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes every Thursday.

Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season digging into Tex Elite and how they've turned silicon valley into a playground for billionaires from the chaotic world of generative ai to the destruction of google search better offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech brought to you by an industry veteran with nothing to lose listen to better offline on the iheart radio apps, wherever else you get your podcasts from. Welcome to Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get real and dive straight into todo lo actual y viral. We're talking música, los premios, el chisme,

and all things trending in my cultura. I'm bringing you all the latest happening in our entertainment world and some fun and impactful interviews with your favorite Latin artists, comedians, actors, and influencers. Each week, we get deep and raw life stories, combos on the issues that matter to us, and it's all packed with gems, fun, straight-up comedia,

and that's a song that only nuestra gente can sprinkle. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. The 2025 iHeart Podcast Awards are coming. Apple Podcasts, or wherever on December 8th. Hey, you've been doing all that talking. It's time to get rewarded for it. Submit your podcast today at iHeart.com slash podcast awards. That's iHeart.com slash podcast awards. On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, five-year-old Cuban boy Elian Gonzalez

was found off the coast of Florida. And the question was, should the boy go back to his father in Cuba? Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or stay with his relatives in Miami? Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.