A Little English

I'm doing a little survey to find out more about ALE listeners. There are just four tiny questions. It will only take a minute or two, and will help me a LOT! Please check it out. Thanks, Cooper

👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇

CLICK HERE FOR THE SURVEY

Thank you for downloading this episode.

👉The story begins at 1:44 and the tiny lessons begin at 15:30

👉You can find the transcript after the Credits!

👉Visit our website to download the Podcast User's Manual and find out more! https://alittleenglish.com/

A Little English is written, produced, recorded, edited, mixed, mastered and scored by Edward Cooper Howland.

All stories are either in the public domain, or written by me.

Copyright 2023 Edward Cooper Howland

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

TRANSCRIPT:

“Sleigh Ride Together”

Hi. My name is Cooper, and this is…A Little English. Every episode, I read a short story. After the story, there are three tiny lessons. 

Today’s story is about sledding. “Sleigh” is just a fancy word for a sled. I come from Massachusetts, USA, and when I was a kid, sledding was a big part of winter life. The story is also about family, and about having - or…being - a big brother. Some of it comes from my real life, and some of it is just made up. I’m not gonna tell you which parts are which, though. You can try to figure it out for yourself. 

So anyway, let’s listen to it. 

“Don’t worry,” said Kevin. “We used to come here every year on Christmas break.”

“Who’s ‘we?’”

“Me and the guys. Mark and Ben and Tommy.” 

“Tommy who broke his arm crashing this same sled in seventh grade? That Tommy?”

“Yeah and he was always the first one calling me up and asking me to bring it out. He knows how awesome it is.”

And with that, Kevin carefully laid the sled down in the middle of the trail, straddled it slowly, and sat down.  He was gone in an instant, the sled rocking wildly as he barely avoided a large rock on the right side of the trail and shot out into the sunny soccer field. As he slid under the goal posts at the far end of the field. Kevin popped up off of the sled, jumping up and down. He was tiny from this far away, no bigger than her finger. He was waving his arms, probably yelling something, but she couldn’t hear.

It took nearly ten minutes for him to haul the sled back up. His wool hat was coated with snow. His cheeks were red and his smile was enormous. “Go!” he said. “It’s so awesome!”

Mandy’s hands were shaking as she took the bright red plastic sled. She hadn’t ridden it since elementary school, but she remembered it well. She knew that the tiniest error could bang her into a tree or dump her out onto a rock, especially since Tommy’s famous crash had ripped the safety belt out. She tried to pick out a safe route and sat down, holding tight to the sides of the sled.

She felt Kevin’s boot against her back, but she had no time to say anything before he pushed with his leg and she was flying.

There was no time to think, no time to breathe. Her cheeks hurt and she could hear the bottom of the sled scraping along the packed snow and ice of the sledding trail. Pine needles stung her face and the wind froze her eyes. 

When the sled got to the bottom of the hill and soared out into the warm sun and the wide-open field, she realized that her eyes were closed. She opened them as she sped across the field, barely slowing down until she, too, had arrived near the goalposts. She was alive. She was free, and nothing could touch her. He was right. It was awesome. 

The sunlight bounced off the perfect icy crust of the snow directly into Mandy’s eyes, blinding her. She held one gloved hand up to guard against the glare and grabbed the rope with the other. She started back towards the hill, her feet crunching through the thin sheet of ice into the fluffy snow beneath, dragging their sled behind her.

She was going to murder her older brother. 

“You idiot,” she shouted when she got to the top. “You can’t do that to someone on this sled! You remember what happened to Tommy.”

“Oh, come on,” he said. “You’re fine. You did a great job.”

“If you push me like that again, I’m going to throw you off this hill myself, Kevin. I swear to God.”

“OK, OK. I promise.”

They sledded for hours, each time starting a little higher, going a little faster, a little less in control of the sled. It was only four PM, but the sun was already close to the trees around their old elementary school, the shadows growing long on the snow. The soccer field was marked with dozens of fresh paths, each a little longer than the last, reaching out closer and closer to the street. 

“Just one more?” he asked her.

“Let’s go together,” she said. “Then neither of us has to wait at the bottom, or walk down from the top of the hill.”

“OK,” Kevin smiled. “Like the old days.”

Kevin sat in the back of the sled and Mandy sat between her big brother’s legs. They both kept their feet outside the sled, holding it in place in the snow and ice.  

“Are you ready?” he asked her.

“Ready.” He wrapped his arms around her and she was safe for just one moment. 

“Three…two…one…GO!”

The sled shot forward as they both brought their legs in. Pine trees, rocks, bits of greenery flew past them. Mandy screamed, terrified but thrilled. She kept her eyes open, focused on the mouth of the trail, the point where the forest ended and the fields began, where they would fly out into the sun and then they could go home and have hot chocolate. 

The tree stump was only a few centimeters around and barely stuck out of the snow at all. The school’s gardeners must have cut it down in the autumn, preparing for the winter. Anyone could have missed it. 

They were going full speed when the bottom of the sled hit the stump. Mandy was in the air before she knew what was happening. Kevin was below her, and then he was above her. Blue sky and white snow and brown, dead winter forest spun around her like a kaleidoscope. 

When she opened her eyes she was on her back in the snow. The steam of her breath floated off into the cloudless sky. Kevin’s face appeared, blood streaked across his nose and mouth. 

“Are you OK, Man?” Was he laughing or crying? Both?  

Mandy patted herself. Her arms and legs were working. She coughed and tried to sit up. 

“I….think so.”

He helped her to her feet, and they stood there for a while, hand on their knees. He spat some blood into the snow and they laughed. 

“The sled is totally busted,” he said, holding up the two halves. “And I’m pretty sure my face is too.”

She held his face in both hands, checking the cuts.

“You’re fine,” she told him. “But Mom’s gonna kill us.”

“Don’t worry.” He gave her a bloody smile. “I’ll tell her it was just me.”

What do you think? Is Kevin a good older brother or a bad one? If you ask me, nobody is all good or all bad with their family. We all make mistakes. We do things we don’t really mean to. Sometimes we hurt each other and we don’t even know why. That’s just part of being family. But so is apologizing, and so is forgiving family members when they do stupid stuff. Like kicking their little sister down a mountain. 

Let’s do some lessons. 

The Big Picture is cold and snowy today. 

Where are they sledding? I mentioned it only once. See if you can find it. They are in their hometown, on a hill near their elementary school. They’re quite a bit older than that now, but a good sledding hill is hard to find. 

Can you dance in the Dictionary Disco when it’s this cold outside?

The first vocabulary word is….”awesome.” This is such a great word. See, in English, Awe is like a feeling of respect and wonder, mixed with fear. Like if you met an Angel or something, you’d feel Awe. So awesome originally meant something that makes you feel respect and wonder and fear. Now we use it more just like “cool” or something.  But Awe…it’s still in there. 

The second word is “stump,” as in a tree stump. Maybe you figured it out from the story, but it’s pretty important, so I’ll explain. When you cut a tree down, the part that’s still sticking out of the ground, attached to the roots? That’s a stump. Not fun to hit at high speed on a sled. 

And today’s melody moment?

We talked about MMM a couple weeks ago. How about NNNN? They’re pretty close sounds. This one is usually spelled with an N. So what’s the big difference between MMM and NNN? There are actually two. The first one is, with NNN, you gotta keep your lips open. The second is your tongue. To make NNNN correctly, your tongue has to touch the top of your mouth. Near the front, but not on your teeth. So like the word “Man,” you start with lips closed, and tongue just kinda…chilling. And you end with lips open and tongue…up. Try it…Mannnnnnnn

Let’s do the credits. 

Thank you for listening to Season 3 Episode 1 of A Little English. 

Every episode is produced entirely by me, Edward Cooper Howland, here in Hiroshima, Japan. 

If you like the show, tell someone about it! A recommendation from a friend is the best way to get someone to listen, and I would really appreciate it. 

This season, all the stories are written by…me! I use chatGPT by Openai.com as an editor because I can’t afford to hire a human. It’s an amazing, free piece of software, and you should check it out. 

Again, thank you  so much for listening.

For now, be kind to yourselves, and to each other. 

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I'm doing a little survey to find out more about ALE listeners. There are just four tiny questions. It will only take a minute or two, and will help me a LOT! Please check it out. Thanks, Cooper

👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇

CLICK HERE FOR THE SURVEY

Thank you for downloading this episode.

👉The story begins at 03:10 and the tiny lessons begin at 14:30

👉You can find the transcript after the Credits!

👉Visit our website to download the Podcast User's Manual and find out more! https://alittleenglish.com/

A Little English is written, produced, recorded, edited, mixed, mastered and scored by Edward Cooper Howland.

All stories are either in the public domain, or written by me.

Copyright 2023 Edward Cooper Howland

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

TRANSCRIPT:

Hi. My name is Cooper, and this is…A Little English. Every episode, I read a short story. After the story, there are three tiny lessons. 

Well. Happy New Year, everyone. I hope you are enjoying a little vacation, and staying warm. 

This week’s story is the scariest one I’ve ever read on the show. Why is it scary? 

Because I wrote it. 

In fact, from now on, unless I say otherwise, all the stories will be written by me. That was actually my plan from the beginning, but I wanted to figure out how to….you know…make a podcast before I started sharing stuff that I wrote. 

So here’s the plan: This year I will write and record forty stories. Each of the stories will have the normal three tiny lessons. If you pay close attention, you’ll see that all the stories are connected. The characters in each story are all connected to the characters in other stories. It’s all one world. And if you listen to all of it, I hope, one large story will emerge. But each story is complete on its own as well, so don’t stress about it too much.

This is the biggest, most complicated, project I’ve ever started, and I really hope I can get through it in a year. More than that, I hope you all enjoy it. 

The name of this story, appropriately enough , is: 

“One”

The timing is the most important thing. Ben knows that she will arrive at the bar just after eight o’clock, like she does every Wednesday night. She and her girlfriends will come in laughing and joking. They’ll pull off their scarves and blow into their cold hands and order enormous  glasses of cheap red wine. Then she will sign up for karaoke. She will sing sad songs by U2. Ben knows this because she only ever sings sad songs by U2.

Ben knows that when it’s her turn, she will place her glass of wine carefully on the stool behind her, hold the microphone with both hands, and sing like this is the most important song in the whole world. Her voice will be flat, and she will probably forget some words, but Ben won’t care. He loves her because she sings from her heart. The timing is the most important thing because when she comes in just after eight o’clock tonight, Ben will be on the stage, singing U2’s best, saddest song. 

He is nervous about singing the last part of the song. There are a bunch of very long, very high notes, like “ooOOooOO, and “HaaaaHaaHaAaaa.” Then he has to do some rock star “yeah! yeah! yeah! yeah!” stuff. During his lessons, his voice cracked almost every time he tried to hit the high notes. When he tried to say “yeah!” like a real rock star, he always felt like an idiot. He practiced again and again, until his teacher said it was good, but he never agreed. The end of the song is the best part, the most important part, and it has to be perfect.

You can’t smoke indoors anymore, but somehow the bar still smells like an ashtray. None of the chairs match, as if they were bought from different yard sales. His cheap table wobbles, and if his beer falls off it, he can’t afford another one. He sees the bartenders look at him, then talk quietly to each other, then look at him again. He assumes it’s because he doesn’t drink as much as everyone else does. He wonders why she loves coming here. 

It’s almost eight o’clock now, and she hasn’t arrived yet. Two boys are on the karaoke stage, singing some new rap song that Ben’s never heard. He only listens to real music. Music from before he was born. His name is next on the list. He is starting to panic. The timing is the most important thing. The rap song is finished, and the boys are cheering with their friends. Now the bar is silent. It’s 8:01. He got the timing right, but she’s not here. Ben is walking as slowly as he can to the stage, trying to take as long as possible, trying to give her a chance to arrive, to park her car, to do whatever she does before she comes in through that door. 

The guitar intro is playing on the speakers, signaling the start of the song. Ben carefully places his beer on the stool behind him and grabs the microphone with both hands. The little ball on the karaoke screen is bouncing onto the first word. This is it, their big moment together, and she’s not here. 

He only misses the first few words before he starts singing. He has been practicing this song and only this song with his music teacher twice a week for three months, ever since he realized that it’s the only sad U2 song that she never sings. He doesn’t have to think about it any more. It’s automatic now.

He’s finishing the first section. It’s slow and minimal, but the lyrics are already sad. They’re about loss and blame, yes, but also hope and love. The drums are playing softly and he has a moment to look around before the second verse starts. She still isn’t here. Maybe she was in an accident, or maybe she’s singing to someone else in another bar.

The second section is much heavier. There are more instruments, and the lyrics are darker. Ben is singing about regret, and he is singing from his heart, because he knows about regret, and about how relationships can fall apart. If only she were here to see him sing this verse. Then she would know about his pain. She would know that all he needs is someone beautiful to love him. 

The song keeps building, adding strings and more guitars for the third section. This is the darkest part of the song, full of accusations and pain. She’s not here. How could she do this to him? He spent months and thousands of dollars learning how to sing this song perfectly and she didn’t come on time. He’s singing perfectly, but he wants to just give up and go home. 

As the song reaches its climax, Ben is starting to cry. Everything was supposed to be perfect. If she had just come on time, she would know his heart by now. She would know his pain, and she would know that he loves the same music as her, and she would know that they’re supposed to be together. Now, of course, it’s all a disaster.  She’ll never see him sing from his heart. She’ll never fall in love with him.

Ben is arriving at the end of the song. There are a lot of lyrics about hope and support and grief and loss, and then name of the song is repeated twice. Just as he is singing that second, “One…” he feels a blast of cold air from the other side of the bar. The door is halfway open. She’s alone, shivering from the cold, pushing the heavy door with her shoulder. When she hears what song is playing, she stops and stares at the stage.

This last part of the song is the most difficult for him. But now she is here. She is looking right at him and she is starting to cry. He has to do it perfectly. The timing is the most important thing. 

So that’s it. That’s the first story in the collection. Only thirty-nine left to go! How did you like it? What do you think about these characters? how do you feel about Ben? Is he a romantic? Or a creep? Or both? I mean, I know how I feel about him. But actually….I’m not going to tell you. I want you to draw your own conclusions. 

 The thing is, one of my rules for this project is that nobody can be the protagonist more than once. So maybe Ben, or one of the bartenders, or this girl he’s got a crush on will show up later, but the story will never be ABOUT Ben again. So….bye, Ben!

Let’s do some tiny lessons. 

First, let’s take our first look at the big picture. 

My question for you is:  what song is he singing? I think I made it clear in the story, but did you figure it out?

Yeah it’s “one.” Like the name of the story. I gave it away at the end there, by singing. Sorry about my singing , by the way. I recommend you go watch the video for that song, or listen on your phone or whatever, then read the story again, thinking about that music, in that moment. Does it change the story for you?

Now, how about a quick visit to the dictionary disco

The first vocabulary word is: flat. YOu probably know flat like not-curvy, or maybe even an apartment in UK English. But in this case, singing FLAT means that your melody is wrong. The pitch is just a little BELOW where it should be. Like my singing. Very flat. 

The second one is grief. Grief is sadness, but it’s a very specific kind of sadness. It’s sadness about LOSS. Like after someone dies, or a relationship ends, you experience grief. You grieve. 

And last, let’s rest for a melody moment. 

I wanna talk about the word: O’clock. I teach English almost every day, and this one is really tough for students. There are two O’s in this word, But they make totally different sounds. If you’ve listened to the first season of ALE, the Winnie-the-Pooh episodes, you know the first one. It’s our old friend, the SCHWA. So it’s an unstressed syllable. UH. The second O, though. That one is even harder. It’s an AH sound. Yeah. The letter O, makes an AH sound. So the two vowels together are….uhAH. Try it. Don’t worry, the guy next to you on the subway won’t notice. Just say…uhAH. Now say, O’clock using those same vowels. How’d you do?

Thank you for listening to Season 3 Episode 1 of A Little English. 

Every episode is produced entirely by me, Edward Cooper Howland, here in Hiroshima, Japan. 

If you like the show, tell someone about it! A recommendation from a friend is the best way to get someone to listen, and I would really appreciate it. 

This season, all the stories are written by…me! I use chatGPT by Openai.com as an editor because I can’t afford to hire a human. It’s an amazing, free piece of software, and you should check it out. 

Again, thank you  so much for listening.

For now, be kind to yourselves, and to each other. 

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Thank you for downloading this episode.

👉This week is a conversation. I didn't read a story, and I didn't do any editing! Don't worry, next week will be back to normal.

👉There isn't a transcript either! See you in 2023!

Lots of love,

Cooper & Tabatha

👉Visit our website to download the Podcast User's Manual and find out more! https://alittleenglish.com/

A Little English is written, produced, recorded, edited, mixed, mastered and scored by Edward Cooper Howland.

All stories are either in the public domain, or written by me.

Copyright 2023 Edward Cooper Howland

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I'm doing a little survey to find out more about ALE listeners. There are just four tiny questions. It will only take a minute or two, and will help me a LOT! Please check it out. Thanks, Cooper

👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇

CLICK HERE FOR THE SURVEY

Thank you for downloading this episode.

👉The story begins at 03:10 and the tiny lessons begin at14:15

👉You can find the transcript after the Credits!

👉Visit our website to download the Podcast User's Manual and find out more! https://alittleenglish.com/

A Little English is written, produced, recorded, edited, mixed, mastered and scored by Edward Cooper Howland.

All stories are either in the public domain, or written by me.

Copyright 2023 Edward Cooper Howland

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

TRANSCRIPT:

Hi. My name is Cooper, and this is…A Little English. Every episode, I read a short story. After the story, there are three tiny lessons. 

First of all, I want  to say we just reached 2,000 downloads, which is totally crazy. I’m so grateful to all the people who are listening. YOU’re all over the world, and you’re listening to my little show and it’s just amazing. Thank you. 

This episode will be a little different, because I’m not reading a story. I’m reading a poem. It’s easily the most famous poem about Christmas. One year when I was a kid, my parents got me and my brother and sister to memorize the whole thing and recite it at family Christmas. So like, three elementary school kids can memorize and recite it. It’s not too difficult. 

Next week I have something very special planned, and then in the new year, I’m going to start Season Three, which will have one big difference. Since I started planning this show, I always wanted to write the stories myself. Now that I’ve been reading other people’s stories for about five months, I think I’m ready. So I will write and read my own stories for as long as I can. Maybe some weeks I’ll do something different, but for a while at least, I’ll be the author of all the stories. I really hope you enjoy them.

Anyway, let’s get into the poem. By the way, Project Gutenberg has some really excellent illustrations for this poem. There is a link at the top of the show notes, and it’s worth going to see them. 

The Night before Christmas (or, A Visit from St. Nicholas) by Clement Clarke Moore. 

We will start with the introduction, which might help you understand something about the poem 

Amid the many celebrations last Christmas Eve, in various places by different persons, there was one, in New York City, not like any other anywhere. A company of men, women, and children went together just after the evening service in their church, and, standing around the tomb of the author of “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” recited together the words of the poem which we all know so well and love so dearly.

Dr. Clement C. Moore, who wrote the poem, never expected that he would be remembered by it. If he expected to be famous at all as a writer, he thought it would be because of the Hebrew Dictionary that he wrote. (This is Edior Cooper in the future. Remember, Hebrew is a language)

He was born in a house near Chelsea Square, New York City, in 1781; and he lived there all his life. It was a great big house, with fireplaces in it;—just the house to be living in on Christmas Eve.

Dr. Moore had children. He liked writing poetry for them even more than he liked writing a Hebrew Dictionary. He wrote a whole book of poems for them.

One year he wrote this poem, which we usually call “’Twas the Night before Christmas,” to give to his children for a Christmas present. They read it just after they had hung up their stockings before one of the big fireplaces in their house. Afterward, they learned it, and sometimes recited it, just as other children learn it and recite it now. (This is Editor Cooper in the future. See?)

It was printed in a newspaper. Then a magazine printed it, and after a time it was printed in the school readers. Later it was printed by itself, with pictures. Then it was translated into German, French, and many other languages. It was even made into “Braille”; which is the raised printing that blind children read with their fingers. But never has it been given to us in so attractive a form as in this book. It has happened that almost all the children in the world know this poem. How few of them know any Hebrew!

Every Christmas Eve the young men studying to be ministers at the General Theological Seminary, New York City, put a holly wreath around Dr. Moore’s picture, which is on the wall of their dining-room. Why? Because he gave the ground on which the General Theological Seminary stands? Because he wrote a Hebrew Dictionary? No. They do it because he was the author of “A Visit from St. Nicholas.”

Most of the children probably know the words of the poem. They are old. But the pictures that Miss Jessie Willcox Smith has painted for this edition of it are new. All the children, probably, have seen other pictures painted by Miss Smith, showing children at other seasons of the year. How much they will enjoy looking at these pictures, showing children on that night that all children like best,—Christmas Eve!

And it’s signed, 

E. McC.

Who I don’t know who that is. And by the way, the pictures that they’re talking about in this introduction, if you follow the link at the top of the show notes of this podcast, you can see them. And you should. They’re really good

And now, the poem. 

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, DASHER! now, DANCER! now, PRANCER and VIXEN!

On, COMET! on CUPID! on, DONNER and BLITZEN!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!

So, that’s the most famous poem about christmas. We all read it when we are kids. Do you? Did they translate it to your language? Is this the first time you’ve heard it?

How about some tiny lessons?

The Big Picture is looking pretty Christmasy!

Tonight’s question is, who is this Saint Nick person?

Of course, it’s Santa Claus. He looks pretty different from our idea of him. He is kinda…fat, nd he has a white beard and a pipe. But he’s not wearing red and white. Instead he’s wearing…all fur. Which makes more sense really. It’s cold on Christmas Eve. But the Red-and-white Santa, that comes from Coca-Cola in the 1930s. Really. Theyre the same colors as a can of Coke!

How about a little dance at the Dictionary Disco?

Our first vocabulary word is: stockings. I’m not sure where you’re listening from, but generally stockings these days are like nylons. They’re long and thin and for ladies, mostly. But we’re not talking about that. We’re talking about the big thick socks that we hang in front of the fireplace. And santa stuffs them full of chocolate and oranges and all kinds of good presents. If you’ve been a good kid. Of course. 

The second word is, clatter. It’s a sound word again. It’s a sound like a bunch of hard objects knocking together. Sounds like the word, right? CLATTER. Like a sound effect in a comic book

And how is this for a Melody Moment?

I wanna talk about the first word in the poem. “ ‘twas ” Definitely not a normal English word, ‘twas. But it actually goes back to something I talk about all the time. I am obsessed with vowel reduction, when a vowel sound like “A” gets kind of squished and becomes “a” (that’s a schwa) Well sometimes we go even further from vowel reduction to vowel deletion. So instead of saying IT WAS, we delete the vowel in the first word and say…..’twas. I call this….hyperschwa. Nobody else calls it that. And actually it’s pretty unusual to write a hyperschwa. We say stuff like that, but don’t write it out. Except, of course, in poems. In poems you can do anything you want. 

Let’s do the credits

Thank you for listening to Season 2 Episode 9 of A Little English. 

Every episode is produced entirely by me, Edward Cooper Howland, here in Hiroshima, Japan. 

If you like the show, tell someone about it! A recommendation from a friend is the best way to get someone to listen, and I would really appreciate it. 

The stories I read are in the public domain, and this time it came from gutenberg.org, which is also really good website and you should check it out.

Again, thank you  so much for listening.

For now, be kind to yourselves, and to each other. 

Mentioned in this episode:

Listener Survey

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I'm doing a little survey to find out more about ALE listeners. There are just four tiny questions. It will only take a minute or two, and will help me a LOT! Please check it out. Thanks, Cooper

👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇

CLICK HERE FOR THE SURVEY

Thank you for downloading this episode.

👉The story begins at 2:14 and the tiny lessons begin at 13:28

👉You can find the transcript after the Credits!

👉Visit our website to download the Podcast User's Manual and find out more! https://alittleenglish.com/

A Little English is written, produced, recorded, edited, mixed, mastered and scored by Edward Cooper Howland.

All stories are either in the public domain, or written by me.

Copyright 2023 Edward Cooper Howland

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

TRANSCRIPT:

Hi. My name is Cooper, and this is…A Little English. Every episode, I read a short story. After the story, there are three tiny lessons. 

Tonight we are going to finish our Christmas story, so if you haven’t heard the first part, go back and listen to the last episode. In part one, we met Della, who doesn’t have enough money for a Christmas present for her husband, Jim. We haven’t met him yet. This couple, they are very poor and have only two things of value: his pocketwatch and her hair. Della is so desperate to get some money for a Christmas present that she sells her beautiful hair to a wig-maker for twenty dollars. She buys Jim a fancy chain for his grandfather’s pocketwatch. We stopped just as Jim is getting home, so let’s see what happens. 

And remember, don’t worry about the fancy vocabulary. The story is pretty clear. And it’s really good. 

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two—and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again—you won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say ‘Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice—what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”

“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?”

Jim looked about the room curiously.

“You say your hair is gone?” he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you—sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year—what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.”

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs—the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims—just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “My hair grows so fast, Jim!”

And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh, oh!”

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

“Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

“Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ’em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.”

The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

—----------------------------------------------------—----------------------------------------------------—--------------

So, I’m only crying like, a little bit. And I remember that story from school. I remember it made me really sad, because her hair will grow back but they’ll never get that watch again. 

And I think I missed the point when I was in elementary school. I think I missed the last paragraph 

Because well, I guess we need to talk about what magi are. They’re a Christmas thing. They’re the three men who came to visit Jesus after he was born. And like he says in the story, they invented the art of giving christmas presents. In Sunday school, we called them the three wise men. Or maybe you know the Christmas carol, “We Three Kings?” (HUM) Those guys. 

So I guess the big picture can only be one question. 

Why are these two, Jim and Della, the wisest? Why are they compared to the three wise men in the bible? Why are they the wisEST?

I think it’s because they both sacrificed their most important possession for love. Because they weren’t thinking about themselves, only about the people they love. Which is the whole point of Christmas, after all. 

Still feel like dancing at the dictionary disco?

How about this one: alas. Like “a scream of joy and then, alas…” well actually then some kinda sexist nonsense. But alas, it’s an old fashioned way of expression sadness or grief. It’s an exclamation, like…”oh no!”

The second word is, “singed,” as in, Della “leaped up like a little singed cat.” To singe something is to burn it, but just a tiny little bit! So a singed cat is a cat that got a little too close to the fireplace. So yeah Della jumped pretty fast!

And tonight’s melody moment?

I think it’s time to talk about, “M.” This is the sound you mostly see written as M. This sound, MMMMM it’s actually really easy to make. You just have to make sure that you touch your lips together. And don’t really do anything else. Your tongue is just in the middle of your mouth. Not touching anything. And push your lips together. And yeah this is a voiced sound, so you gotta vibrate your throat. MMMMMM Fun!

Next week we will do an even more Christmasey story. Actually, it’s a poem. You probably know it, but I love it. See you then. 

Let’s do the credits!

Thank you for listening to Season 2 Episode 7 of A Little English. 

Every episode is produced entirely by me, Edward Cooper Howland, here in Hiroshima, Japan. 

If you like the show, tell someone about it! A recommendation from a friend is the best way to get someone to listen, and I would really appreciate it. 

The stories I read are in the public domain, and I get them from standardebooks.org, which is a really good website and you should check it out.

Again, thank you  so much for listening.

For now, be kind to yourselves, and to each other. 

Mentioned in this episode:

Listener Survey

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I'm doing a little survey to find out more about ALE listeners. There are just four tiny questions. It will only take a minute or two, and will help me a LOT! Please check it out. Thanks, Cooper

👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇

CLICK HERE FOR THE SURVEY

Thank you for downloading this episode.

👉The story begins at 02:00 and the tiny lessons begin at 20:00

👉You can find the transcript after the Credits!

👉Visit our website to download the Podcast User's Manual and find out more! https://alittleenglish.com/

A Little English is written, produced, recorded, edited, mixed, mastered and scored by Edward Cooper Howland.

All stories are either in the public domain, or written by me.

Copyright 2023 Edward Cooper Howland

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

TRANSCRIPT:

 Hi. My name is Cooper, and this is…A Little English. Every episode, I read a short story. After the story, there are three tiny lessons. 

Well, it’s Christmastime. It’s not Christmas yet, but it’s ChristmasTIME. And in my house, that means one thing: Christmas Movies. All December. Home Alone and Gremlins and Die Hard and this absolutely horrifying Korean movie called The Tower. And it also means it’s time for Christmas stories. So let’s start out with one that I still remember from elementary school. It’s by an author named O. Henry, who was a very famous short story writer from the USA in the 20th century. This story is from 1905, and there is some wild vocabulary, but honestly don’t even stress about it. The plot is easy to follow. And beyond that, I’m not going to tell you anything about it. Let’s just get started. 

The Gift of the Magi

By O. Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”

The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling—something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”

“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.

“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”

Down rippled the brown cascade.

“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

“Give it to me quick,” said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation—as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value—the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends—a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do—oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?”

At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying a little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”

And that’s where we will stop for tonight. 

I honestly am starting to cry. 

I’m certain that I will cry by the end of the story. This is a really special story. And again, there’s some crazy vocabulary because O Henry wanted to sound smart. But, it’s not really important. To be honest, I don’t know what “meretricious” means. I’ve never heard that word before. But I get the idea. It means fancy. It’s talking about  fancy watchchain. So, If you’re confused go back and listen again And just listen to the story. Also, maybe I can help you with 

Three Tiny Lessons

Can you see the Big Picture?

What does Della do with her hair? And although it’s not stated in the story, why would that lady give her $20 for it (which is about $600 in today’s money)?

It’s all about making wigs. At that time, in 1905, there was no fake human hair. So they had to use human hair to make wigs. Della sold her beautiful hair, so some rich lady could wear it around. Awful.

And the Dictionary Disco? How’s it sound?

There is SO MUCH old vocabulary in this story. So maybe you wanna spend some time with a actual dictionary, looking up words. Don’t forget, there is a transcript in the show notes. But I’ll help you with two of them. 

First is Falter, As in “for a moment, she faltered.” It means to lose strength or momentum. So Della allllmost didn’t have the strength to sell her hair. But she did in the end. 

The second word is “ripple,” as in “Down rippled the brown cascade.” Ripples are the little waves in water when there is some wind or a little current. Or if you drop a rock into a still pond. So her hair, moves like water. It flows. Beautiful.

What about a Melody Moment?

Let’s talk about “L” This is the sound that’s written with an L. I’m not sure where you are or what your first language is, but here in Japan, people have a lot of trouble with L. And there’s a pretty simple reason for it. In the Japanese language, you never, ever, ever touch your teeth with your tongue. And to say “L” properly, you have to tap the end of your tongue against your front top teeth. Try it. Tap Tap La La La! Now move your tongue back like one centimeter so it doesn’t touch teeth any more. Different, right? Not the same sound. So that’s the lesson. You gotta touch your teeth!

Let’s do the credits!

Thank you for listening to Season 2 Episode 7 of A Little English. 

Every episode is produced entirely by me, Edward Cooper Howland, here in Hiroshima, Japan. 

If you like the show, tell someone about it! A recommendation from a friend is the best way to get someone to listen, and I would really appreciate it. 

The stories I read are in the public domain, and I get them from standardebooks.org, which is a really good website and you should check it out.

Again, thank you  so much for listening.

For now, be kind to yourselves, and to each other. 

Mentioned in this episode:

Listener Survey

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I'm doing a little survey to find out more about ALE listeners. There are just four tiny questions. It will only take a minute or two, and will help me a LOT! Please check it out. Thanks, Cooper

👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇

CLICK HERE FOR THE SURVEY

Thank you for downloading this episode.

👉The story begins at 01:50 and the tiny lessons begin at 15:07

👉You can find the transcript after the Credits!

👉Visit our website to download the Podcast User's Manual and find out more! https://alittleenglish.com/

A Little English is written, produced, recorded, edited, mixed, mastered and scored by Edward Cooper Howland.

All stories are either in the public domain, or written by me.

Copyright 2023 Edward Cooper Howland

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

TRANSCRIPT:

 Hi. My name is Cooper, and this is…A Little English. Every episode, I read a short story. After the story, there are three tiny lessons. 

This is the second and last part of “Beyond the Door” by Philip K Dick. Last episode we met four characters. There’s Larry, who’s kind of a jerk. His wife, Doris, is fooling around with her friend, Bob. And then there’s this cuckoo clock. Larry got it as a gift for Doris, and she has…kinda….fallen in love with it? I don’t know. It’s weird.  The last thing that happened was, Doris and Bob were talking about the clock. She called it….”he.” Like it’s her friend. 

So let’s see what happens.

“He?” Bob frowned. “Who is he?”

Doris laughed. “You’re jealous! Come on.” A moment later they stood before the clock, looking up at it. “He’ll come out in a few minutes. Wait until you see him. I know you two will get along just fine.”

“What does Larry think of him?”

“They don’t like each other. Sometimes when Larry’s here he won’t come out. Larry gets mad if he doesn’t come out on time. He says⁠—”

“Says what?”

Doris looked down. “He always says he’s been robbed, even if he did get it wholesale.” She brightened. “But I know he won’t come out because he doesn’t like Larry. When I’m here alone he comes right out for me, every fifteen minutes, even though he really only has to come out on the hour.”

She gazed up at the clock. “He comes out for me because he wants to. We talk; I tell him things. Of course, I’d like to have him upstairs in my room, but it wouldn’t be right.”

There was the sound of footsteps on the front porch. They looked at each other, horrified.

Larry pushed the front door open, grunting. He set his briefcase down and took off his hat. Then he saw Bob for the first time.

“Chambers. I’ll be damned.” His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?” He came into the dining-room. Doris drew her robe about her helplessly, backing away.

“I⁠—” Bob began. “That is, we⁠—” He broke off, glancing at Doris. Suddenly the clock began to whirr. The cuckoo came rushing out, bursting into sound. Larry moved toward him.

“Shut that din off,” he said. He raised his fist toward the clock. The cuckoo snapped into silence and retreated. The door closed. “That’s better.” Larry studied Doris and Bob, standing mutely together.

“I came over to look at the clock,” Bob said. “Doris told me that it’s a rare antique and that⁠—”

“Nuts. I bought it myself.” Larry walked up to him. “Get out of here.” He turned to Doris. “You too. And take that damn clock with you.”

He paused, rubbing his chin. “No. Leave the clock here. It’s mine; I bought it and paid for it.”

In the weeks that followed after Doris left, Larry and the cuckoo clock got along even worse than before. For one thing, the cuckoo stayed inside most of the time, sometimes even at twelve o’clock when he should have been busiest. And if he did come out at all he usually spoke only once or twice, never the correct number of times. And there was a sullen, uncooperative note in his voice, a jarring sound that made Larry uneasy and a little angry.

But he kept the clock wound, because the house was very still and quiet and it got on his nerves not to hear someone running around, talking and dropping things. And even the whirring of a clock sounded good to him.

But he didn’t like the cuckoo at all. And sometimes he spoke to him.

“Listen,” he said late one night to the closed little door. “I know you can hear me. I ought to give you back to the Germans⁠—back to the Black Forest.” He paced back and forth. “I wonder what they’re doing now, the two of them. That young punk with his books and his antiques. A man shouldn’t be interested in antiques; that’s for women.”

He set his jaw. “Isn’t that right?”

The clock said nothing. Larry walked up in front of it. “Isn’t that right?” he demanded. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

He looked at the face of the clock. It was almost eleven, just a few seconds before the hour. “All right. I’ll wait until eleven. Then I want to hear what you have to say. You’ve been pretty quiet the last few weeks since she left.”

He grinned wryly. “Maybe you don’t like it here since she’s gone.” He scowled. “Well, I paid for you, and you’re coming out whether you like it or not. You hear me?”

Eleven o’clock came. Far off, at the end of town, the great tower clock boomed sleepily to itself. But the little door remained shut. Nothing moved. The minute hand passed on and the cuckoo did not stir. He was someplace inside the clock, beyond the door, silent and remote.

“All right, if that’s the way you feel,” Larry murmured, his lips twisting. “But it isn’t fair. It’s your job to come out. We all have to do things we don’t like.”

He went unhappily into the kitchen and opened the great gleaming refrigerator. As he poured himself a drink he thought about the clock.

There was no doubt about it⁠—the cuckoo should come out, Doris or no Doris. He had always liked her, from the very start. They had got along well, the two of them. Probably he liked Bob too⁠—probably he had seen enough of Bob to get to know him. They would be quite happy together, Bob and Doris and the cuckoo.

Larry finished his drink. He opened the drawer at the sink and took out the hammer. He carried it carefully into the dining-room. The clock was ticking gently to itself on the wall.

“Look,” he said, waving the hammer. “You know what I have here? You know what I’m going to do with it? I’m going to start on you⁠—first.” He smiled. “Birds of a feather, that’s what you are⁠—the three of you.”

The room was silent.

“Are you coming out? Or do I have to come in and get you?”

The clock whirred a little.

“I hear you in there. You’ve got a lot of talking to do, enough for the last three weeks. As I figure it, you owe me⁠—”

The door opened. The cuckoo came out fast, straight at him. Larry was looking down, his brow wrinkled in thought. He glanced up, and the cuckoo caught him squarely in the eye.

Down he went, hammer and chair and everything, hitting the floor with a tremendous crash. For a moment the cuckoo paused, its small body poised rigidly. Then it went back inside its house. The door snapped tight-shut after it.

The man lay on the floor, stretched out grotesquely, his head bent over to one side. Nothing moved or stirred. The room was completely silent, except, of course, for the ticking of the clock.

“I see,” Doris said, her face tight. Bob put his arm around her, steadying her.

“Doctor,” Bob said, “can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” the doctor said.

“Is it very easy to break your neck, falling from so low a chair? It wasn’t very far to fall. I wonder if it might not have been an accident. Is there any chance it might have been⁠—”

“Suicide?” the doctor rubbed his jaw. “I never heard of anyone committing suicide that way. It was an accident; I’m positive.”

“I don’t mean suicide,” Bob murmured under his breath, looking up at the clock on the wall. “I meant something else.”

But no one heard him.

Oh ho ho ho! The Clock killed Larry. Oh my gosh. Did you expect that’s what would happen? I certainly didn’t. I thought that there would be alike aliens or something. Not just BOOM the cuckoo killed him. Good story! The next couple weeks, we are gonna do another Philip K Dick story, and then…Christmas! I’m pretty excited. Let’s do some tiny lessons.

First, can we take a Big Picture?

We already talked about the murder cuckoo. So how about this? I think that Larry planned to murder Doris AND Bob. And I have a good reason for thinking that. Can you pause and go back through the text and find my reason? Maybe you disagree? Check it out. 

Larry says to the clock, “I’m going to start on you-first.” Meaning hammering. To me, that means he plans to hammer Bob and Doris next. What do you think?

How about a Dance at the Dictionary Disco?

The first word today is gonna be…antique. As an adjective, it means old. Specifically it’s something that’s more than 100 years old. If it’s less than 100 years old, it can be vintage, but not antique. But here it’s used as a noun. Antiques are old, valuable furniture for fancy houses. 

The second vocabulary word is…”grotesque.” It’s actually “grotesquely,” but that’s just the adverb form. So grotesque means totally ugly and disgusting. So like Larry at the end, he was stretched out grotesquely because of the angle of his broken neck. Eeew. 

And can we have a Melody Moment?

So last week we talked about the voiced pair of SHHH and ZHHH. What happens if you add a “t” sound before “shhh?” you get “CH” Like a C and an H. The sound for CH has a “t” in it. Wild! So, if you add a “t” to “shh” and get CH…what about when it’s voiced? The voiced version of “T” is “D,” so the voiced version of “CH” is….”J.” Yeah. Like my brother’s name….George. 

Let’s do the credits!

Thank you for listening to Season 2 Episode 6 of A Little English. 

Every episode is produced entirely by me, Edward Cooper Howland, here in Hiroshima, Japan. 

If you like the show, tell someone about it! A recommendation from a friend is the best way to get someone to listen, and I would really appreciate it. 

The stories I read are in the public domain, and I get them from standardebooks.org, which is a really good website and you should check it out.

Again, thank you  so much for listening.

For now, be kind to yourselves, and to each other. 

Mentioned in this episode:

Listener Survey

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I'm doing a little survey to find out more about ALE listeners. There are just four tiny questions. It will only take a minute or two, and will help me a LOT! Please check it out. Thanks, Cooper

👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇

CLICK HERE FOR THE SURVEY

Thank you for downloading this episode.

👉The story begins at 01:24 and the tiny lessons begin at 14:17

👉You can find the transcript after the Credits!

👉Visit our website to download the Podcast User's Manual and find out more! https://alittleenglish.com/

A Little English is written, produced, recorded, edited, mixed, mastered and scored by Edward Cooper Howland.

All stories are either in the public domain, or written by me.

Copyright 2023 Edward Cooper Howland

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

TRANSCRIPT:

Hi. My name is Cooper, and this is…A Little English. Every episode, I read a short story. After the story, there are three tiny lessons. 

This is part one of a new story by Philip K Dick. This one is called Beyond the Door, and it’s only two episodes. It’s still a kind of horror story, but….a different kind. A smaller kind. Just a man, and his wife, and….the other man…..and…….the cuckoo clock. Enjoy!

That night at the dinner table he brought it out and set it down beside her plate. Doris stared at it, her hand to her mouth. “My God, what is it?” She looked up at him, bright-eyed.

“Well, open it.”

Doris tore the ribbon and paper from the square package with her sharp nails, her bosom rising and falling. Larry stood watching her as she lifted the lid. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall.

“A cuckoo clock!” Doris cried. “A real old cuckoo clock like my mother had.” She turned the clock over and over. “Just like my mother had, when Pete was still alive.” Her eyes sparkled with tears.

“It’s made in Germany,” Larry said. After a moment he added, “Carl got it for me wholesale. He knows some guy in the clock business. Otherwise I wouldn’t have⁠—” He stopped.

Doris made a funny little sound.

“I mean, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to afford it.” He scowled. “What’s the matter with you? You’ve got your clock, haven’t you? Isn’t that what you want?”

Doris sat holding onto the clock, her fingers pressed against the brown wood.

“Well,” Larry said, “what’s the matter?”

He watched in amazement as she leaped up and ran from the room, still clutching the clock. He shook his head. “Never satisfied. They’re all that way. Never get enough.”

He sat down at the table and finished his meal.

The cuckoo clock was not very large. It was handmade, however, and there were countless frets on it, little indentations and ornaments scored in the soft wood. Doris sat on the bed drying her eyes and winding the clock. She set the hands by her wristwatch. Presently she carefully moved the hands to two minutes of ten. She carried the clock over to the dresser and propped it up.

Then she sat waiting, her hands twisted together in her lap⁠—waiting for the cuckoo to come out, for the hour to strike.

As she sat she thought about Larry and what he had said. And what she had said, too, for that matter⁠—not that she could be blamed for any of it. After all, she couldn’t keep listening to him forever without defending herself; you had to blow your own trumpet in the world.

She touched her handkerchief to her eyes suddenly. Why did he have to say that, about getting it wholesale? Why did he have to spoil it all? If he felt that way he needn’t have got it in the first place. She clenched her fists. He was so mean, so damn mean.

But she was glad of the little clock sitting there ticking to itself, with its funny grilled edges and the door. Inside the door was the cuckoo, waiting to come out. Was he listening, his head cocked on one side, listening to hear the clock strike so that he would know to come out?

Did he sleep between hours? Well, she would soon see him: she could ask him. And she would show the clock to Bob. He would love it; Bob loved old things, even old stamps and buttons. He liked to go with her to the stores. Of course, it was a little awkward, but Larry had been staying at the office so much, and that helped. If only Larry didn’t call up sometimes to⁠—

There was a whirr. The clock shuddered and all at once the door opened. The cuckoo came out, sliding swiftly. He paused and looked around solemnly, scrutinizing her, the room, the furniture.

It was the first time he had seen her, she realized, smiling to herself in pleasure. She stood up, coming toward him shyly. “Go on,” she said. “I’m waiting.”

The cuckoo opened his bill. He whirred and chirped, quickly, rhythmically. Then, after a moment of contemplation, he retired. And the door snapped shut.

She was delighted. She clapped her hands and spun in a little circle. He was marvelous, perfect! And the way he had looked around, studying her, sizing her up. He liked her; she was certain of it. And she, of course, loved him at once, completely. He was just what she had hoped would come out of the little door.

Doris went to the clock. She bent over the little door, her lips close to the wood. “Do you hear me?” she whispered. “I think you’re the most wonderful cuckoo in the world.” She paused, embarrassed. “I hope you’ll like it here.”

Then she went downstairs again, slowly, her head high.

Larry and the cuckoo clock really never got along well from the start. Doris said it was because he didn’t wind it right, and it didn’t like being only half-wound all the time. Larry turned the job of winding over to her; the cuckoo came out every quarter hour and ran the spring down without remorse, and someone had to be ever after it, winding it up again.

Doris did her best, but she forgot a good deal of the time. Then Larry would throw his newspaper down with an elaborate weary motion and stand up. He would go into the dining-room where the clock was mounted on the wall over the fireplace. He would take the clock down and making sure that he had his thumb over the little door, he would wind it up.

“Why do you put your thumb over the door?” Doris asked once.

“You’re supposed to.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I wonder if it isn’t that you don’t want him to come out while you’re standing so close.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe you’re afraid of him.”

Larry laughed. He put the clock back on the wall and gingerly removed his thumb. When Doris wasn’t looking he examined his thumb.

There was still a trace of the nick cut out of the soft part of it. Who⁠—or what⁠—had pecked at him?

One Saturday morning, when Larry was down at the office working over some important special accounts, Bob Chambers came to the front porch and rang the bell.

Doris was taking a quick shower. She dried herself and slipped into her robe. When she opened the door Bob stepped inside, grinning.

“Hi,” he said, looking around.

“It’s all right. Larry’s at the office.”

“Fine.” Bob gazed at her slim legs below the hem of the robe. “How nice you look today.”

She laughed. “Be careful! Maybe I shouldn’t let you in after all.”

They looked at one another, half amused half frightened. Presently Bob said, “If you want, I’ll⁠—”

“No, for God’s sake.” She caught hold of his sleeve. “Just get out of the doorway so I can close it. Mrs. Peters across the street, you know.”

She closed the door. “And I want to show you something,” she said. “You haven’t seen it.”

He was interested. “An antique? Or what?”

She took his arm, leading him toward the dining-room. “You’ll love it, Bobby.” She stopped, wide-eyed. “I hope you will. You must; you must love it. It means so much to me⁠—he means so much.”

And that’s where we’re going to stop part one. 

What do you think so far? It's not so totally horrible. There’s no dead bodies. Not yet anyway. Just three people and a clock. But it’s weird, right? There’s something strange going on. It’s hard to know what, but there’s something about that clock. Something….not….right. 

Let’s do some tiny lessons.

The Big Picture’s looking good today!

I’ve got a question for you: What’s the deal with Bob? Is he just a friend? Is he Doris’ lover? How do you know? Take a minute. Maybe review some of the text. 

Yeah they’re sleeping together. Or if they haven’t yet, they’re gonna soon. I know because she’s keeping him a secret. From her husband, and even from the lady across the street. She’s his secret. Good luck, Bob!

Let’s shake it on down at the Dictionary Disco.

The first vocabulary word is a phrasal verb, kind of. It’s “Afford it,” as in, “otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to afford it.” So if you can afford something, it means you have enough money to buy it. So we mostly see that as “I can’t afford it.” I don’t have enough money.

The second word is “nick,” as in “a nick on the soft part of his thumb.” A nick is a tiny little cut, like something was kind of dug out. Like if you just get yourself with the tip of a knife. Or the beak of a tiny wooden bird.

Can we share a Melody Moment?

I wanna talk about a really fun pair of sounds. And of course, they’re the same except for voicing. So let’s start with this one “SSSHHH” All kinds of different cultures use this sound to mean….? Yeah. Be quiet. 

So what happens if you voice it? You get a sound that’s quite rare in English. ZHHHHHH. Try it. ZZZHHHH does your language have this sound? Where do you use it? What letter do you use? In English, it could be an S, like in Explosion or Asia. Or a G like in Garage. Or a J, like in Deja Vu. Or….a Z. Or a T. Or even in Luxury……it’s a X. ZHHHHHH

Let’s do the credits!

Thank you for listening to Season 2 Episode 5 of A Little English. 

Every episode is produced entirely by me, Edward Cooper Howland, here in Hiroshima, Japan. 

If you like the show, tell someone about it! A recommendation from a friend is the best way to get someone to listen, and I would really appreciate it. 

The stories I read are in the public domain, and I get them from standardebooks.org, which is a really good website and you should check it out.

Again, thank you  so much for listening.

For now, be kind to yourselves, and to each other.

Mentioned in this episode:

Listener Survey

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I'm doing a little survey to find out more about ALE listeners. There are just four tiny questions. It will only take a minute or two, and will help me a LOT! Please check it out. Thanks, Cooper

👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇

CLICK HERE FOR THE SURVEY

Thank you for downloading this episode.

👉The story begins at 01:44 and the tiny lessons begin at 16:22

👉You can find the transcript after the Credits!

👉Visit our website to download the Podcast User's Manual and find out more! https://alittleenglish.com/

A Little English is written, produced, recorded, edited, mixed, mastered and scored by Edward Cooper Howland.

All stories are either in the public domain, or written by me.

Copyright 2023 Edward Cooper Howland

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

TRANSCRIPT:

Hi. My name is Cooper, and this is…A Little English. Every episode, I read a short story. After the story, there are three tiny lessons. 

Tonight we are finally finishing The Hanging Stranger by Philip K Dick. I promise, by the end of the story you will have the answer to the big question: is Ed losing his mind? Or has his town been invaded by bug monsters from another dimension? Either way, it’s not great for Ed. Last episode he murdered a bug monster pretending to be his son. Or….he murdered his son because he thought it was a bug monster. Then he ran ten miles to the next town to try and find someone to help. I wonder how it’s gonna go for ol’ Ed. Let’s find out…

A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched in wonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was a gasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickens pecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.

The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself up to the station. "Thank God." He caught hold of the wall. "I didn't think I was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hear them buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me."

"What happened?" the attendant demanded. "You in a wreck? A hold-up?"

Loyce shook his head wearily. "They have the whole town. The City Hall and the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was the first thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw them hovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyond them. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the sun came up."

The attendant licked his lip nervously. "You're out of your head. I better get a doctor."

"Get me into Oak Grove," Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel. "We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started right away."

They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he had finished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet. He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out his cigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.

"You don't believe me," Loyce said.

The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatiently away. "Suit yourself." The Commissioner moved over to the window and stood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. "I believe you," he said abruptly.

Loyce sagged. "Thank God."

"So you got away." The Commissioner shook his head. "You were down in your cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million."

Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. "I have a theory," he murmured.

"What is it?"

"About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Starting at the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in a widening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the next town. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going on for a long time."

"A long time?"

"Thousands of years. I don't think it's new."

"Why do you say that?"

"When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. A religious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah. Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—"

"So?"

"They were all represented by figures." Loyce looked up at the Commissioner. "Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly."

The Commissioner grunted. "An old struggle."

"They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. They make gains—but finally they're defeated."

"Why defeated?"

"They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got the Hebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. The realization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think they understood. Had escaped, like I did." He clenched his fists. "I killed one of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance."

The Commissioner nodded. "Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did. Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control." He turned from the window. "Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figured everything out."

"Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from the lamppost. I don't understand that. Why? Why did they deliberately hang him there?"

"That would seem simple." The Commissioner smiled faintly. "Bait."

Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. "Bait? What do you mean?"

"To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who was under control—and who had escaped."

Loyce recoiled with horror. "Then they expected failures! They anticipated—" He broke off. "They were ready with a trap."

"And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known." The Commissioner abruptly moved toward the door. "Come along, Loyce. There's a lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste."

Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. "And the man. Who was the man? I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger. All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—"

There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered. "Maybe," he said softly, "you'll understand that, too. Come along with me, Mr. Loyce." He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught a glimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, a platform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! "Right this way," the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.

As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank came up out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat and coat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people were there, hurrying home to dinner.

"Good night," the guard said, locking the door after him.

"Good night," Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the street toward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in the vault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if there was room for another tier. He was glad to be finished.

At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. The street was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze.

From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something large and shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind.

What the hell was it?

Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired and hungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinner table. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominous and ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drew him on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing made him uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated.

And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it.

Oooooh man! So….that’s the end! Did you guess right? Did it scare you? It scared me the first time I read it. 

There is one thing I wanna talk about. The story gets very Biblical at the end. It talks about Beelzebub and demons and stuff, and it also mentions….the Hebrews. So, that word is kind of a problem. There is a language, Hebrew, which people speak in Israel today. And that word is used in the bible to refer to early Jewish people thousands of years ago. But these days, it is super not-OK to call Jewish people “Hebrews” in English. This story is 60 years old, and things were different back then, but today….not OK. 

Anyway, I talked to my university students and I asked them, do you want to have a scary story next, or a fun one. They said they want horror! So, OK. More horror! We are gonna do two very short stories next, then maybe a longer one. All by Philip K Dick! I hope you enjoy. 

Let’s have some lessons. 

So the Big Picture is pretty clear to see. 

Was Ed crazy? Or was his town invaded by bug people? How do you know? Maybe pause and think about it for a minute.

Yeah, the bug people were real. And how do we know? Because they caught him in the next town and hung HIM from the lamppost, as bait to draw out anyone else who escaped their mind control. Ed became the hanging stranger. Poor Ed. 

Still feel like dancing at the Dictionary Disco?I’ve got two good words for you from the end of this part. 

The first one is “Vague.” It means uncertain, or unclear. Like when you ask your teenager where they were, and they say, “oh, you know. Around.” Very vague.

The second one is “ominous,” as in “something ominous and ugly.” It means something that gives you the feeling that something horrible is going to happen. Like, this whole story is pretty ominous. 

And maybe a Melody Moment?

 Are you tired of hearing about voicing yet> Let me share one that kind of blew my mind when I figured it out. F and V make almost the same sound. The only difference between FFFFF and VVVVVV is voicing. Maybe that’s not such a surprise for you, but it was pretty big for me. I always thought of them as totally different sounds, but they’re really not. Here try this:Say FAN. Then say VAN. Now say LEAF and LEAVE. Pay attention to the positions of your lips, teeth, jaw and tongue. They’re exactly the same. The only difference is the vibration in your throat. Wild. 

Let’s do the credits!

Thank you for listening to Season 2 Episode 4 of A Little English. 

Every episode is produced entirely by me, Edward Cooper Howland, here in Hiroshima, Japan. 

If you like the show, tell someone about it! A recommendation from a friend is the best way to get someone to listen, and I would really appreciate it. 

The stories I read are in the public domain, and I get them from standardebooks.org, which is a really good website and you should check it out.

Again, thank you  so much for listening.

For now, be kind to yourselves, and to each other. 

Mentioned in this episode:

Listener Survey

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I'm doing a little survey to find out more about ALE listeners. There are just four tiny questions. It will only take a minute or two, and will help me a LOT! Please check it out. Thanks, Cooper

👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇

CLICK HERE FOR THE SURVEY

Thank you for downloading this episode.

👉The story begins at 2:00 and the tiny lessons begin at 17:20

👉You can find the transcript after the Credits!

👉Visit our website to download the Podcast User's Manual and find out more! https://alittleenglish.com/

A Little English is written, produced, recorded, edited, mixed, mastered and scored by Edward Cooper Howland.

All stories are either in the public domain, or written by me.

Copyright 2023 Edward Cooper Howland

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

TRANSCRIPT:

Hi. My name is Cooper, and this is…A Little English. Every episode, I read a short story. After the story, there are three tiny lessons. 

And today you’re going to find out why Tabatha isn’t appearing in this story. Like I’ve been saying, this story is NOT for kids.

In the last two parts, we met Ed Loyce, who saw a dead guy hanging in the town square. Everyone else was okay with it, which, uh, freaked him out. Then he saw a crack in the sky, a portal into another universe hanging over City Hall. And bug-people were coming out of it. Oh yeah, and he killed a guy with a rock. But Ed’s day is about to get worse. He’s just arrived at home….

-------------------------------------------------------------

"Ed!" Janet Loyce backed away nervously. "What is it? What—"

Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room. "Pull down the shades. Quick."

Janet moved toward the window. "But—"

"Do as I say. Who else is here besides you?"

"Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What's happened? You look so strange. Why are you home?"

Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen. From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ran his finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the living room.

"Listen to me," he said. "I don't have much time. They know I escaped and they'll be looking for me."

"Escaped?" Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. "Who?"

"The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it pretty well figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and police department. What they did with the real humans they—"

"What are you talking about?"

"We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension. They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind."

"My mind?"

"Their entrance is here, in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you. The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerful enemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They're limited! They can make mistakes!"

Janet shook her head. "I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane."

"Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd be like all the rest of you." Loyce peered out the window. "But I can't stand here talking. Get your coat."

"My coat?"

"We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help. Fight this thing. They can be beaten. They're not infallible. It's going to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on!" He grabbed her arm roughly. "Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving. Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that."

White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat. "Where are we going?"

Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto the floor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. "They'll have the highway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I got onto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget about it."

"The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody's supposed to drive over it."

"I know." Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. "That's our best chance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full of gas, isn't it?"

Janet was dazed.

"The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon." Janet moved toward the stairs. "Ed, I—"

"Call the twins!" Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothing stirred. No sign of life. All right so far.

"Come on downstairs," Janet called in a wavering voice. "We're—going out for awhile."

"Now?" Tommy's voice came.

"Hurry up," Ed barked. "Get down here, both of you."

Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. "I was doing my home work. We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done—"

"You can forget about fractions." Ed grabbed his son as he came down the stairs and propelled him toward the door. "Where's Jim?"

"He's coming."

Jim started slowly down the stairs. "What's up, Dad?"

"We're going for a ride."

"A ride? Where?"

Ed turned to Janet. "We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turn it on." He pushed her toward the set. "So they'll think we're still—"

He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out. Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur of motion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy. It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him, cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellow T-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strange half-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing?

A stinger.

Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loyce rolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still as statues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again. This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. It bounced against the wall and fluttered down.

Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alien mind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered his own, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence, settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in a broken heap on the rug.

It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly of some kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mind tight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up his knife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still, neither of them moving.

The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. It was ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys and open fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone.

Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife and son. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.

A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darkness toward the edge of town.

The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping for breath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothing was torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled. Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night. His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterly exhausted.

But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.

He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled and fell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everything receded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away from Pikeville.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Ok, so who guessed that Ed would have to murder an enormous insect that was wearing his son’s clothes? Anyone? Anyone at all? Me neither. This story is wild! Don’t worry, not all of the stories this season are horror, and the next part of this story is the last one. But I’m having a lot of fun reading it. I hope you’re having fun listening!

Last episode I asked you to write down: do you think Ed is losing his mind, or are there really bug monsters? How do you feel after this episode? Have you changed your mind? I promise you will get an answer in part four. For now, let’s do some lessons. 

First take a peek at the Big Picture 

What is Ed’s plan? How is he going to beat the bug people?

He wants to get out of Pikeville, and go to the next town, Oak Grove. He has to go on foot by the old road because he thinks the police will capture him if he uses his car. Since the portal seems to only be over Pikeville, he’s hoping that he can get help in Oak Grove.  

So, who’s dancing at the Dictionary Disco?

Our first word is: mimic, or mimicry. It means making a copy of something else. An imitation. Like, say, bug people pretending to be normal human beings. Ugh. 

The second word is: vague, as in “a vague resemblance.” Vague is like uncertain, or unclear. So if a horrible bug monster vaguely resembles your son, it mostly looks like a…horrible bug monster.  

Can I bother you for a Melody Moment?

Let’s talk more about voicing. When a word ends in “ED,” there are actually three different sounds that it can make. It could be “t” or “d” or “-id” So the first two are the same, but “d” is voiced. Try it for yourself. The third one, “-id” actually adds a syllable to the word. So like “start” is one syllable, but “started” is two syllables. So, I have a little quiz for you. I’m gonna say six words that end with “-ed.” You write down which ones have a “t” sound, a “d” sound, or an “id” sound. Ready?

Connected   stamped   crawled   stabbed   bounced   exhausted 

Got it? 

Stamped and bounced have a “t” sound at the end. 

Crawled and stabbed have a “d” sound

And exhausted and connected have an “id” sound. 

Can you hear the different sounds? Can you say them?

Let’s go to the credits?

Thank you for listening to Season 2 Episode 3 of A Little English. 

Every episode is produced entirely by me, Edward Cooper Howland, here in Hiroshima, Japan. 

If you like the show, tell someone about it! A recommendation from a friend is the best way to get someone to listen, and I would really appreciate it. 

The stories I read are in the public domain, and I get them from standardebooks.org, which is a really good website and you should check it out.

Again, thank you  so much for listening.

For now, be kind to yourselves, and to each other.  

Mentioned in this episode:

Listener Survey

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.