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Speaker 1: Let's depart for one podcast and get away from the

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monster stories and the bigfoot stories and the werewolf stories

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and ghost stories and read something that's just normal. What

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you're about to hear are the first few scenes from

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a novel titled Salvaged this World by the author Michael

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Ferris Smith. When I'm done reading this, I'll talk to

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you a little more about what you're about to hear.

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So here we go. She stood bathed in twilight, the

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dust in her hair and a kid on her hip.

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She stared at the approaching storm as if trying to

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figure how to wrangle the thunderheads and steer them to

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a distant and parched land where desperate souls would pay

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whatever ransom she demanded. The acres of sugar cane cutting

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up surrounding the house. A dry autumn turned to an

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unpredictable winter, and then, eleven days ago, he left, and

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she'd seen no one since it was a mile walk

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along the dirt road that separated the acreage. Another eight

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miles to walk to the nearest telephone, but even if

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she wanted to bundle up and make it, she wouldn't

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know who to call. He was gone, and he had

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taken the car and the cigarettes and every dollar except

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the stash she kept hidden beneath the floorplank in the closet.

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She had finished the last of the whiskey three nights

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before the milk had run out. Yesterday, Jesse stared at

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the storm, and the wind began to blow, and dust

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clouds rose like souls awakened, and she listened to the

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wind and welcomed the sound of something else. She shifted

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the child from one hip to the other and pointed

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out at the lightning, and said, look at the light.

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Can you see the light? One side of the sky

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was thick with storm clouds, and the other side of

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the sky was wrapped in a rusted belt that bled

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into the horizon like an open wound. And the child

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lifted his small hand and pointed at the light. But

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it was not the lightning he saw, but a gathering

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of headlights approaching in the distance. The thunder roared and

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the engines roared, and she turned and ran for the house,

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setting the child down on the porch and hurrying for

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the bedroom. Her footfalls hard against the floorboards, and her

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breath in quick sucks as she took the pistol from

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beneath the mattress and grabbed the set of keys from

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the dresser drawer that he had always told her to

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grab if she had to make a run for it,

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And then she hustled out and scooped up the child,

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the headlights growing closer and splitting the dusk as she

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hurried around the house and along the beaten trail through

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the high grass that led into the woods. And she ran,

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and the child bounced in her arms, and she had

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just reached the edge of the woods when she looked

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back to see the vehicles skid to a stop in

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front of the house, a pale and powdery cloud rising

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around them. She heard the engines cut and the door

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slam behind her, and then she heard the shouts coming

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in her direction as the last of twilight seeped into

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the earth. They called out as they chased her into

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the woods, and the child squeezed her neck and held

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on but did not cry as she ran. She had

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gone far into these woods before, but never far enough

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to know if there was anything on the other side.

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She was seized by the thought that she may run

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over the edge of the earth, and that she and

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the child would plummet soundlessly into nothing. That thought was

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interrupted when a shotgun fired into the night, its echo

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ringing through the trees. She pushed harder, squeezing the child

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close to her chest, praying not to run over the edge,

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or if there was such a thing, praying that her

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fall would be brief and painless. Another shotgun blast, and

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then in another, and she knew they were looking for him.

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She knew there was a fine damn reason he had

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never returned. She knew she and the child could never

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go back to the house, and she knew she would

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have to keep running. They shivered through the night. Jesse

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unbuttoned her flannel shirt and held Jase against her skin

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and wrapped the shirt around them both, but it did

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not stop the shaking. He cried some little whimpers of discomfort,

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little whimpers of hunger. She sat on a pile of leaves,

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with her back against a white oak and held him tight.

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She rocked a little, hummed, and sometimes sang, and she

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kept promising that everything was going to be all right.

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The boy slept in increments, the ragged sleep of distress

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and discomfort, and an owl hooted, and nightbirds sang. The

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deer moved in the dark, and their creeping sounded like

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monsters and wait. She nodded in and out of sleep,

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and when her eyes fell heavy, she imagined strong arms

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and strong hands reaching for her through the dark, prying

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the child from her grasp. She would wake with a

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jerk to find herself squeezing the child so tightly that

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he was struggling for freedom. She would stroke the back

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of his head and coax him back to sleep, and

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her eyes stayed open, wide, watching the woods and watching

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for the arms and hands that approached in her dreams,

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but then closing them again. Finally there was light. She

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rubbed her eyes and felt the warmth of the child's

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skin against her own. She did not want to wake him,

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so she sat there and watched the morning come, listen

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to the chirps and whistles and the movement of the

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early creatures. The child lifted its head and coughed, opened

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his eyes and looked with question at his mother. She

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kissed the boy on top of his ear and said,

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it's all right, it's all right. She then tucked the

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empty pistol into the back of her pants, and she

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started them walking south, believing if she kept walking south

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that she would run into de Cambre. Amidst the trees.

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She would stop and listen for the hum of the highway,

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and set the boy down and rest him in it

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and listen. Then he would cry to be carried again,

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and she would tell him to hold on, hush a second,

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but he was not concerned, and he cried harder and

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made little mad fists, and she would pick him up

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and start again. In an hour, she came to a clearing,

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and the earth grew soft and heavy. The damp ground

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sucked at her feet, and she set the child down

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and retied the laces on her boots. He wabbled and

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plopped down on his behind a smack as his ass

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hit the wet ground. He screamed something different now from

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toddler whimpers. And he screamed and shook and slapped at

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his own legs, red faced and releasing as much anger

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as his little body could muster. And she propped her

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hands on her hips and looked down at him and said,

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let it out, Let it all out, boy, And when

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he was done, she reached down and helped him to

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his feet. In the back of his pants muddy, he

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stood next to her and they both looked out across

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the marshland cranes stood on stumps. A flock of blackbirds

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rose from a cluster of young cypress and scattered across

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the low sky, and the sun sat on the horizon

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and lathered the Martian gold, and it seemed beautiful to

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her in a way she had not expected. But there

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was no time to admire. The child was now wet

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and hungry and cold, and she was hungry and cold,

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and she didn't know where they were, but she knew

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there was a highway somewhere. They circled around the edge

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of the marsh for at least an hour, and crossed

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into another wood, where the trees thinned. The sun rose

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higher into a blue and cloudless sky, and their pace

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had slowed, and the child slept with his head on

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his mother's shoulder. The pistol was cold and hard against

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the small of her back, and every now and then

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she touched the pocket of her jeans, feeling the keys

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and making sure she had grabbed them, and it was

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not part of some hurried dream. First she saw the smoke,

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and she followed it until she was close enough to

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smell it. She came to the edge of the woods

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and stopped hid herself behind a tree. Saw a small

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cabin with smoke rising from its chimney and a trailer

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next to it. A truck sat unavidly propped up by

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a jack, a front tier missing the hood raised behind

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a truck, a hatchback sat running and the driver's door

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was open, a cloud of exhaust from the tailpipe as

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the heat met the coal. A woman stood on the

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cabin porch with a lit cigarette, and then another woman

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joined her. She held a shovel and she leaned it

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against the doorframe. They both wore denim jackets with collars

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pushed up around their necks, and both stood with their

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hips propped while they smoked. They talked between inhales and

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exhales and one and two word sentences, and when they

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were done smoking, they flicked the butts into the dirt,

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and one of them yelled out toward the trailer, come on,

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we got shit to do. The women then stepped back

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inside the cabin, leaving the door open, and Jesse sprinted

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from the woods, the child waking with a sudden jolt,

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and he let out a cry that she didn't acknowledge

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as she darted between old tires and a pile of

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firewood and a smoldering heap of trash, and then she

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heard the growl as a wolf on a chain rose

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from slumber and lurched at her backside with its bone

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white fangs, only to be held fast by a chain.

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She screamed, and the wolf yet, but she didn't slow down,

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making it to the hatchback and hopping in, just as

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a man in coveralls emerged from the trailer holding a

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coffee mug. He sipped and watched dumb eyed, before realizing

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that it was a stranger in the car, a stranger

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holding a child. He hollered, and two women came from

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the cabin, and the three of them came down the

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steps and ran for the hatchback. As Jesse shifted into reverse,

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the car door opened and flapping like a wing, and

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then slamming shut when she hit the brakes, shifted into

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drive and stamped the gas, the tires spinning and the

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three of them trying to corral the hatchback like some

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untamed animal. And as the car raced away from their cries,

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a coffee mug crashed on the hood as if dropped

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from heaven, just as the tires caught firm on the

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gravel road. She drove along the back roads away from

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De Cambre and toward Lake Penure, finding a solitary gas

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station where she stopped and bought a small bottle of

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milk and honey, buns and powdered doughnuts, cigarettes and a lighter,

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and a pack of diapers. Then she left the store

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and drove east a long highway fourteen, the landscape shifting

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from swamp to crops and back to swamp. She turned

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off down a dirt road, and she and the child

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ate and drank until there was nothing left but to

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lift the sugar from their fingertips. She changed the boy's diaper,

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leaned back the passenger seat, let him lie down while

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she sat on the hood, smoked a cigarette and tried

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to figure out what the hell to do. She would

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need to get rid of the hatchback, and she was

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ready for that. The upholstery was stained and poked with

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cigarette burns, and smelled sour and sick. The back seat

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was piled with wadded clothes and fast food bags. And

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as foul as the hatchback looked and smelled, she knew

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it had been called in. They were not far from

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New Iberia, and there was probably a bus station there,

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and she could leave the hatchback with a nice note

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that said I was only borrowing it, but also a

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new Iberia. There would be real police made aware of

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the license plate and given a description of both them

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and the shitty little car. And where the hell do

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you think you're taking a bus to? Anyway, She made

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a lap around the car, smoking and thinking, and looking

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in at Jace, who was turned on his side and sleeping,

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small hands tuck beneath a small cheek powdered sugar on

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the corners of his mouth. She flicked away the cigarette

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and looked at the heap and the back seat, and

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it didn't matter if she was going another mile or

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another one hundred miles. She couldn't do it with the smell.

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So she quietly opened the door, pulled the lever on

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the driver's seat and it came forward, and she reached

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into the back seat and grabbed a mess of clothes

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and trash. She made three before she had it all

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lying in a pile at the rear of the car,

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and then she took the keys from the ignition and

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she unlocked the hatch to shove it all into the back,

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but there was no room. It was covered in garbage

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bags and bound with duct tape, and it was big

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and lumpy, and she knew what it was. She stepped back,

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tripping through the clothes and trash and falling to the ground,

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up quickly and hand over her mouth as she moved

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back toward the hatch and stared at it, wondering if

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it would jerk if she poked it. And she watched

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carefully for a moment, any rise and fall of breathing,

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any possibility of it being something other than dead as hell.

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But it was still, and the world hell still around her,

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as her mind could only find one thought, Is it him?

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She walked back and forth along the side of the car,

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mumbling to herself, rubbing at her face and neck, wanting

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to look and to keep away. And she picked up

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a rock and threw it, and then another and another,

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finally crying out in disgust with not just today and yesterday,

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but crying out against the years that had led her

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to now all the steps she had taken to arrive

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on this empty road in the middle of nowhere, with

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her small son asleep in a stolen car and a

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dead thing wrapped in a garbage bag and the hatch,

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and she screamed out into the void. And when she

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had screamed herself out of breath, she turned and saw

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Jason's face in the window, awakened by his mother, his

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nose and palms pressed against the glass. She slammed the

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hatch before opening the car door and lifting him out,

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talking to him in a flurry of motherly voice, did

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you sleep okay? I didn't mean to wake you up.

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Do you feel better with your tummy full? Ready to

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ride some more? The child shook his head at her questions,

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rubbed at his eyes, and then he put his hands

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on her cheeks, as if to hold her still and

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gain her full attention. Their eyes were close, and the

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boy pushed at her cheeks. Home. He said, but I

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don't know where that is. She thought, I don't know

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which direction. I don't know what to do, And then

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he said it again and pressed her cheeks harder with

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his little hands. Home. She squeezed him, walked down the

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road holding him, singing bits and pieces of songs, fragments

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of lullabies and a half of a verse of amazing Grace,

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and ending with both of them quacking like ducks. They

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sang and walked, and she kept looking back at the hatchback,

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as if hoping it had sunk into the earth, or

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maybe never existed at all. They returned to the car.

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Nobody would have called it in. She could drive it

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to the end of the world if she wanted to,

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but she didn't want to. She opened the milk bottle

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and Jase took a swallow, and then she took a swallow.

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She settled him in the passenger seat, and then she

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returned to the back. You have to look, she thought,

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you know, you have to look and see if it's him.

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She opened the hatch again and felt around and found

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the head pulled at the plastic bags and tore a hole,

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and she saw matted hair and crusted blood on the forehead.

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And she turned the face toward her, and two bruised,

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pulpy and half open eyes looked at her, and she gasped,

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00:16:33,080 --> 00:16:35,919
taken quickly by the stair of the dead, and she

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stepped back and put her hands on her knees and

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bent over, drawing deep breaths, settling herself because it was

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not him, and she had been ready for it to

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00:16:46,000 --> 00:16:49,000
be so. But she took a breath and pulled at

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the body and tried to rustle it out of the hatchback.

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It was heavy and awkward and kept flopping back down,

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but she finally got the legs over the side and

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she lifted the torso and the weight carried forward and

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the body tumbled out. It lay on its back, the

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hole and the plastic, allowing its swollen eyes one last

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glimpse of sunlight before she turned it on its stomach

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and grabbed the legs and pulled it into the ditch.

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When she was done, she turned around and Jace was

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standing there watching her, holding the bottle of milk and

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pointing at the thing in the ditch as if pointing

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at an animal in the zoo. The wrestling and the

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anxiety had given her a sweat, and she wiped her

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forehead and mouth, and then she scooped up the child

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and began telling the story of the Three Little Bears

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as she returned him to the car and buckled his

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seat belt. And she kept telling it as she cranked

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the car, and as they turned back onto the highway,

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Jay set silently and Jesse drove with both hands gripping

303
00:17:51,519 --> 00:17:56,119
the steering wheel. Her forearms clenched and her shoulders clenched

304
00:17:56,519 --> 00:17:59,799
as she deepened her voice for Papa Bear and lightened

305
00:17:59,839 --> 00:18:02,960
it for Mama Bear and the rough road thump beneath

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00:18:03,000 --> 00:18:06,000
them as she told the story and tried to figure

307
00:18:06,039 --> 00:18:08,640
out how many years it had been since she had

308
00:18:08,759 --> 00:18:14,759
last spoken to her father. I've been doing this podcast

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00:18:14,839 --> 00:18:19,720
for six years. It'll be six years this October, I think.

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00:18:20,400 --> 00:18:23,920
And I've done some I've done several audio books. I've

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00:18:23,960 --> 00:18:28,400
done hundreds and thousands of stories that you guys have

312
00:18:28,559 --> 00:18:31,960
sent me. I've done several stories that I've written myself.

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00:18:32,000 --> 00:18:35,240
We've done the Steve Lily series, which if you don't

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00:18:35,240 --> 00:18:38,440
know who Steve Lily is, it's another podcast. Just look

315
00:18:38,480 --> 00:18:41,640
up the Steve Lily Journals. I was able to write

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00:18:41,680 --> 00:18:44,400
those and share them with you. But of all the

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00:18:44,640 --> 00:18:47,319
all these all the time that I've been doing this,

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00:18:48,279 --> 00:18:50,720
that what I just read you to me is the

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00:18:50,960 --> 00:18:56,000
greatest honor that I've and greatest pleasure that I've had

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to share something with you. I'm not saying I did

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00:18:58,759 --> 00:19:02,200
the story any justice, and it's just the beginning of

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00:19:02,240 --> 00:19:05,480
the novel. But here's how this came about. You all

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00:19:05,559 --> 00:19:09,160
know that I'm a I'm not a voracious reader. I'm

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a picky reader. I like to read good quality stuff

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00:19:13,160 --> 00:19:15,920
and sometimes I like to read just you know, fun

326
00:19:15,960 --> 00:19:19,000
stuff that may not be written well. But I love

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00:19:19,440 --> 00:19:23,799
Southern writers. You all know I live in Mississippi. I

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00:19:23,839 --> 00:19:27,960
actually lived just about an hour north of this author.

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00:19:28,960 --> 00:19:32,039
I came across his books. My wife and I went

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to a movie probably last year. The title of the

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movie is Desperation Road, and we thought it was a

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00:19:40,119 --> 00:19:44,119
great story. We were enthralled with the movie. And when

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00:19:44,160 --> 00:19:46,880
I see a movie that a film that I really like,

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I will sit through the credits to see if it's

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00:19:50,400 --> 00:19:53,559
based on a novel, so that if it's a good story,

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00:19:53,640 --> 00:19:55,839
I can look up the author and see what they

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00:19:55,920 --> 00:19:58,079
have out and maybe read their stuff. And I did

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00:19:58,119 --> 00:20:01,119
on this one, and it it's very and it said

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00:20:01,119 --> 00:20:04,240
it is based on a novel by Michael Ferris Smith,

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00:20:04,880 --> 00:20:09,000
who is a Mississippi writer who's written a novel and

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00:20:09,079 --> 00:20:13,440
it was turned into a really popular film. He has

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00:20:13,720 --> 00:20:16,559
several books out. I've read them all. He has another

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novel out called The Fighter, which is an excellent, excellent

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story which was also made into a film called I Believe.

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The title is Rumble in the Dark. It's about a

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00:20:28,960 --> 00:20:34,000
prize fighter, a bare knuckle fighter in the Delta in Mississippi,

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00:20:34,440 --> 00:20:37,880
and it's just a saga of his last few days.

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But Michael Ferris Smith, so let me just you know,

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you guys, I ramble a lot. So here's how this

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00:20:45,799 --> 00:20:48,440
came about. I've read all his books, and when I

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00:20:48,599 --> 00:20:51,599
read good stuff, and since I do narrate some of

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00:20:51,640 --> 00:20:55,599
this stuff for this podcast, as I'm reading these novels,

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00:20:55,680 --> 00:20:58,519
I can I can hear it in my mind, and

354
00:20:58,559 --> 00:21:02,640
I can see the story with my mind's eye. Everybody's

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00:21:02,720 --> 00:21:05,440
vision of what they read is different, but mine is.

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I pay attention to it. I pay attention to the

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voice as I read. And every time I read a

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00:21:13,640 --> 00:21:16,440
really good book, I think, oh my gosh, I would

359
00:21:16,480 --> 00:21:18,759
love to just be able to just share with this

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00:21:18,880 --> 00:21:23,160
audience one chapter to show you how well these Southern

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00:21:23,200 --> 00:21:27,359
writers are able to tell a story in a succinct,

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compact way, yet move a story from point A to

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00:21:33,400 --> 00:21:37,559
point B, which could be one hundred miles in two weeks,

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and they can do it in three chapters. And it

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00:21:41,960 --> 00:21:46,359
is and the adjectives and the way they describe the scenery,

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00:21:46,720 --> 00:21:50,519
and all that is not over flowery. That's the best

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00:21:50,559 --> 00:21:52,759
word I can think of, but it is so to

368
00:21:52,839 --> 00:21:57,039
the point and so beautiful. Anyway, I started reading Michael

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Faris Smith, and I love uh. This was the first

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00:22:00,880 --> 00:22:04,799
book I read that he's written, is called Rivers, excellent book.

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00:22:05,920 --> 00:22:09,160
I think Salvage this World, which is the first few

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00:22:09,240 --> 00:22:11,680
scenes you just heard, was a second book I read.

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Then I read Blackwood, which is an excellent, very good novel,

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and then I went to Desperation Road because I had

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already seen the movie, so I kind of had an

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00:22:22,039 --> 00:22:24,759
idea of the story. By the way, Desperation Road I

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00:22:24,759 --> 00:22:29,640
believe was produced by Mel Gibson, he's actually in the movie. Anyway.

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00:22:30,480 --> 00:22:33,160
So I read these books and I think, oh my gosh,

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I kind of do that, And you know, I'm into

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00:22:36,279 --> 00:22:41,519
this stuff. I love fiction, especially Southern fiction, and I

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00:22:41,559 --> 00:22:43,599
think it would be so great if I could just

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00:22:43,920 --> 00:22:47,160
read one or two chapters to show you all what

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00:22:47,519 --> 00:22:52,000
really good writing sounds like and encourage you to maybe,

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00:22:52,160 --> 00:22:54,440
if you are a reader, to go buy these books

385
00:22:54,519 --> 00:22:57,839
and try these authors out. And so I got on

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00:22:57,920 --> 00:23:02,599
Michael Ferrissmith's website just to read more about him. I'm

387
00:23:02,680 --> 00:23:05,839
interested in writers, and you know how they do their thing,

388
00:23:05,880 --> 00:23:09,000
where they live, where there, what are their influences. I

389
00:23:09,000 --> 00:23:11,200
don't know why I'm interested in that. I just am

390
00:23:11,720 --> 00:23:16,359
and there was a contact information a contact link which

391
00:23:17,039 --> 00:23:19,839
gave me his email address. So I thought, well, I'm

392
00:23:19,880 --> 00:23:21,799
just going to fire him off an email, and I

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00:23:21,839 --> 00:23:24,240
sent him an email and I said, look, you staid

394
00:23:24,279 --> 00:23:27,480
nothing to gain from this, because I'm just a small

395
00:23:27,559 --> 00:23:32,559
podcast narrator, you know, who narrates audio book style stories.

396
00:23:32,599 --> 00:23:35,519
But I would love permission from you to share a

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00:23:35,559 --> 00:23:38,839
few chapters from some of your books with my audience.

398
00:23:39,799 --> 00:23:43,079
And a couple of days later he responded and he said,

399
00:23:44,039 --> 00:23:46,599
he said, sure, that sounds great, go ahead and do it.

400
00:23:46,920 --> 00:23:50,799
And thanks for asking. What an I mean? This guy

401
00:23:50,880 --> 00:23:55,160
is a best selling author. He knows and associates with

402
00:23:55,279 --> 00:23:59,240
people who make films and produce films. He's really done well,

403
00:23:59,319 --> 00:24:01,480
and for him to give me permission to do this

404
00:24:02,400 --> 00:24:05,519
is one of my favorite things I've ever done with

405
00:24:05,599 --> 00:24:08,720
this podcast. And I don't know if he'll ever hear

406
00:24:08,799 --> 00:24:11,400
this or not, but Michael, if you're listening, thank you

407
00:24:11,480 --> 00:24:14,839
for giving me permission. So that's all I wanted to say.

408
00:24:14,880 --> 00:24:17,759
You can find all of his books. I'll put his

409
00:24:17,960 --> 00:24:20,720
name in a list of two or three of the

410
00:24:20,720 --> 00:24:24,720
books that I can remember off the top of my

411
00:24:24,839 --> 00:24:27,799
head in the description. You can look him up on Amazon.

412
00:24:27,839 --> 00:24:29,519
I'm not going to put a link to any of

413
00:24:29,559 --> 00:24:33,720
his books because I don't think YouTube likes Amazon. I

414
00:24:33,720 --> 00:24:37,440
don't think they like the Amazon links. I don't know

415
00:24:37,440 --> 00:24:39,559
why I say that, but it seems like a couple

416
00:24:39,599 --> 00:24:42,799
of years ago I had a video taken down because

417
00:24:42,839 --> 00:24:46,960
I was promoting an indie author, and it seems like

418
00:24:47,880 --> 00:24:51,559
I'm pretty sure YouTube took the video down, they demonetized it,

419
00:24:51,640 --> 00:24:54,599
and then took the video down, mainly because that link

420
00:24:54,680 --> 00:24:58,960
was in the description. So I'll put Michael Ferris Smith's website,

421
00:24:59,079 --> 00:25:01,880
his name and a list of a few of the

422
00:25:01,960 --> 00:25:04,640
novels he has out. Please look him up and buy

423
00:25:04,839 --> 00:25:09,960
his books. If you enjoy good storytelling and good writing,

424
00:25:10,240 --> 00:25:14,160
exceptional writing, read him. Here are some other authors that

425
00:25:14,240 --> 00:25:19,240
I read. These are Southern. These are Southern authors who

426
00:25:19,279 --> 00:25:21,640
that I kind of follow. I haven't read all of

427
00:25:21,680 --> 00:25:25,640
their stuff, but I'm getting through it. One is Larry Brown.

428
00:25:26,720 --> 00:25:29,599
I've just told you about Michael Ferris Smith. There's an

429
00:25:29,599 --> 00:25:36,680
author named Barry Hannah. There's Brad Watson, Harry Crews. He

430
00:25:36,720 --> 00:25:39,240
writes some kind of weird stuff, but it's really good.

431
00:25:39,400 --> 00:25:43,880
It's good stuff. And then there's Pat Conroy. Larry Brown

432
00:25:43,920 --> 00:25:48,559
and Pat Conroy have died since I began reading their stuff.

433
00:25:49,160 --> 00:25:52,200
Pat Conroy is a wonderful Southern writer. One of my

434
00:25:52,279 --> 00:25:56,119
favorite novels of all time is The Prince of Tides.

435
00:25:56,400 --> 00:25:58,960
It's the most beautiful, one of the most beautifully written

436
00:25:59,000 --> 00:26:03,000
books think I've ever read. I've actually that's one of

437
00:26:03,000 --> 00:26:06,839
the few novels I've actually reread. And Prince of Ties.

438
00:26:06,920 --> 00:26:09,440
Pat Conroy has several novels out. You can read them.

439
00:26:10,160 --> 00:26:12,920
So that's all I wanted to do for this podcast.

440
00:26:13,039 --> 00:26:15,920
I know it's unusual, and I know it's short, but

441
00:26:16,680 --> 00:26:19,319
sometimes you just want to do something different. And I'm

442
00:26:19,640 --> 00:26:25,480
as long as Michael Ferris Smith's permission stands, I'm going

443
00:26:25,559 --> 00:26:28,640
to pick up over the next few months a couple

444
00:26:28,640 --> 00:26:30,920
of his other books and read three or four chapters

445
00:26:30,960 --> 00:26:33,519
from it to try to give you get you interested

446
00:26:33,559 --> 00:26:36,440
in it. Because if you enjoy good writing, you will

447
00:26:36,559 --> 00:26:40,920
enjoy all these writers. So that's it. This is I'm

448
00:26:40,960 --> 00:26:44,119
gonna upload this on Sunday. I don't know what the

449
00:26:44,240 --> 00:26:48,400
date is. The first, maybe September first, as Labor Day weekend.

450
00:26:48,440 --> 00:26:50,440
Hope you guys are having a good Labor Day weekend

451
00:26:50,599 --> 00:26:53,759
and we'll be back to monster stories on the next podcast.

452
00:26:53,880 --> 00:26:59,079
Love you all, see you on the next one. Thanks

453
00:27:00,119 --> 00:27:01,920
the was amashim my computer