CZM Book Club: "The Orchard of Tomorrow" by Kelsea Yu

do the reading because I do it for you. And we read fiction and sometimes we read stories that are like the perfect story for Cool Zone Media book Club. Sometimes we read stories like the one today Today is an example of one of the perfect stories in case that didn't come across. Because today I'm going to read you a story called The Orchard of Tomorrow by Kelseyu. Who's Kelseu? Well, i'll read you her bio Kelsey You. He is a Taiwanese Chinese American writer who is eternally

enthusiastic about sharks and appreciates a good ghost story. Over a dozen of her short stories and essays appear in Clark's World, Apex, Nightmare, Fantasy, Pseudopod, and elsewhere. Her debut novella Bound Feet was a Shirley Jackson Award nominee, and her next novella, Demon Song, will be published by Titan Books in twenty twenty five. Kelsey's first novel, It's Only a Game, is published by Bloomsbury. Find her on Instagram and Twitter at a novel Escape, or visit her website

kelseu dot com. Her name is spelled k E l sa yu dot com. Kelsey lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, children and a pile of art supplies. And as one Shirley Jackson Award nominee to another, did you get the rock? One of the coolest things about the Shirley Jackson Award is that if you're nominated, they give you a rock that's engraved with you know, Shirley Jackson Award nominee, like whatever year. And it makes me really happy because it's a clever joke about the story

of the lottery. Ooh, I wonder if I can read that to you all one day. I don't know to figure it out, but this story that I'm about to read to you, The Orchard of Tomorrow, originally appeared in Clark's World magazine in July twenty twenty three, and I just want to shout out. Neil Clark is the editor of Clark's World. Neil keeps winning well deserved awards for his work. He's one of the best editors in speculative fiction, and honestly, like, if this is the only place you

get your stories, that's great. I love the stories that I read to you. But there are a bunch of really good speculative fiction magazines out there right now. Like we are actually living in a golden era of short fiction, which is interesting. We are not in a golden era of short fiction readership. We are in a golden era of short fiction authorship and published ship. We're also not in a golden era of Margaret making up words. We're in a pretty mediocre era of that. But I highly

recommend Clark's World, Strange Horizons. I don't know, it's just the magazines that are out right now full of good stuff. You should read them if you like stories, which you probably do, or you wouldn't be listening to this The Orchard of Tomorrow by Kelsey U in the rich even tide glow, I wait for her in the place where the peaches once grew, mouth watering, little golden dusts to

signal the arrival of summer. Hefty o Henry's skin, dark as rust honey, yellow flesh bursting with flavor, Dainty summer ladies, impossible to eat without juice dripping down your chin, and reliably sapid fair times to close out the season. As our elders tell it, this orchard was once bursting with variety of the fuzzy skinned fruit. I kneel down, dig my fingers into the soil, and scoop up a handful. It's dry, too dry, and it crumbles in my hand.

I close my fist, sweat from my palm, soaking the dirt as I try to imagine a time when the ground was rich with nutrients, when the landscape was filled with ripening peach trees, silhouettes full and dark against the twilight sky, When my grandparents' backs and arms ached something fierce after a full day of picking fruit. All I had, all Laine and I ever had, were stories to show us what the world had been like. The sun dips

below the horizon, and my hope sinks with it. So much has changed in all the time that's passed, but her haunts remain the same. I would rather have sat outside her place, the one that was once upon a time my home too, and awaited her return. But I knew I should give her the choice to see me or not. After eight years apart and everything I said to her when we last spoke, it's the least I owe her, So I shoved a note under her door. Meet me at the orchard at sunset. It was the

right thing to do. Yet here I am, now, in the gloaming, all alone. I unclenched my fist and a dead beetle tumbles out with the clumped dirt. It lies belly up on the ground that once teemed with its kind. I brush my hands off and reach into the pocket of my thin coat, checking to make sure it's still there. The surprise I've saved for Lane, the one that might be my saving grace if she gives me the chance

to show her. I turn, making my way toward the tree at the edge of the field, the lone survivor. It's bare and a fruit now, but it's still standing, leaning back against its trunk. I close my eyes, thinking of when Lay and I spent all our days whispering secret dreams for a hopeful future. So what you're back Now I open my eyes to see a hollow, cheeked version of Lane, wraith like and disconnected from the version

of her that lives in my memory. Her sloppily patched shirt is too large, hanging strangely on her bony shoulders. Eight long years, filled with who knows how many hungry days, hungry nights, have whittled her away to this. Guilt twists in my gut, leaving me momentarily speechless. If she's shocked by how different I am, it shows only in the slight narrowing of her eyes, the same warm brown as

I remember, but ringed with dark circles. Now Lane was always closed off to anyone outside her tight circle, and I'm no longer snugly on the inside. I suck in a breath, sharp with the pain of distance between us. This is a waste of time. She turns to leave. The movement is so like her, so very lame, that it reminds me of how things used to be, of why I'm here when I made her angry too many times near the end, she did this. She was usually the one to run from our fights first, but she

always came back, unlike me. I reach out to grab her sleeve. Lane. Wait, She crosses her arms. What do you want to go back to the way things were? I bite back the words. I miss you. Want to share a tale with you? It's a dirty trick. The Terrible Winter. After Lane's parents died in a flash flood, she moved in with me and mom. On cold nights, when Lane's grief threatened to swallow her hole, Mom would wrap us up in blankets and tell us stories of

Swan Wukong, the monkey King. I see longing cross Lane's face. Then she straightens, her veil of indifference falls back into place. She pulls away, forcing me to let go of her sleeve. I don't want to hear it. Please, I say, Andrea, Please. She sighs, and I still know her well enough to know it's a victory. However, small, somewhere inside the prickly creature standing before me, the ghost of my former best

friend lives on. In the celestial gardens of Shi Wong Mu, the Queen Mother of the West, three types of peaches of immortality grew. The first bloomed but once every three thousand years, granting an extension of life equal to its growth time to anyone who consumed one. The second grew for six thousand years, offering immortality and strength of body. The third ripened every nine thousand years, and its gifts

were the most precious of them all. For the consumer of the rarest peach would become as eternal as the sky above and the earth below, and live as long as the fiery Sun and the frigid moon. To celebrate the ripening of the peaches, Shi Wong Mu and her husband Yu Wong, the Jade Emperor, would invite all the deities to their Azure banquet hall on Mount Kunlan for a magnificent gathering. There they would present the peaches of immortality for all to partake, thereby ensuring the deity's continual

immutable existence. In the brief space of my tail, Lane's eyes have grown wide and attentive. Her arms are still crossed, but her posture has loosened. I can't help myself. I shift toward her. The movement so slight, I hope she won't notice. Instantly she's on guard. Lane steps backward as if I'm a creature bearing fangs. Her shoulders stiffened, and she presses her arms tightly together again, narrows her eyes as if to remind herself to stay wary. When she speaks,

her voice is pure ice. Let me guess you learned that story from one of the dragons. She spits, the diminutive that we and most other common porn folk used to refer to the world's wealthy elite. I WinCE, No,

it's not like that. Did you enjoy it there? Waking up on a clean, fluffy bed every morning for eight years, eating your fill each meal, and spending your leisure time enjoying all the things they stole from us, everything they hoarded in their precious locked towers so they could continue to live in comfort while the rest of us died for scraps. Lane's voice breaks at the end, her choked sobs, A thing with spikes lodging itself deep inside my heart.

This is so much worse than the way she screamed at me when I first told her the dragons had offered me a job in one of their distant preservation greenhouses. Back then, Lane and I spent most of our days doing any work we could find in exchange for food and basic comforts. Her mom, for her, for me. Whenever we had moments free. My mom would rest at home while Laine would visit the elders in the community, listening to their stories as she helped them in any way

she could. I, meanwhile, spent my time applying the knowledge passed down through my family, trying to work out how to restore the damaged soil so it would grow things again. The planter at our tiny shared house had barely begun to sprout my first successful attempt when a recruiter showed up. Lane was gone. Knowing the dragons as I do now, he likely waited until I was alone to approach me.

I took in his clean tailored clothes, his rosy cheeks, untroubled eyes, and perfectly styled hair, the disdainful look he directed at the home I shared with the ones I loved most, and I told him to go to hell. Sure, he said, with a dismissive little laugh, I'll do that, but first you'll want to hear this. We can give you all the resources you need to grow things, real things, not this child's play. Your grandparents were farmers, right, I

glared at him. They had an orchard back before the world broke, before assholes like you came and took the last of their fruiting trees. And exchange for resources that should be freely shared. Now get the hell out. I was ready to run inside, grab my Almah's old shovel and smack him on the head. Consequences be damned. And then he made me an offer I couldn't refuse. I did enjoy it for a time. I finally admit to Lane thinking about the day I entered the Dragon's Lair.

I won't lie to her. At first, it was a relief. Lane stares at me, and I'm afraid I've made things even worse. But she doesn't say anything, so I go on. I it's useless to describe what it felt like to get a full night sleep, to have so much food available that I gorged myself sick for a week before learning to take it slow, to know my mom would stay alive for three more years thanks to the pills the Dragon's horse for themselves. I can't say any of it. Laine would only hate me all the more, so I

say the only thing I can say. I missed you, Blaane. I'm sorry I left. She presses her lips together and turns away. She's tense, agitated, fingernails digging into her own arms and she's about to begin pacing. I can't tell if I'm closer to regaining her trust or losing her forever. So I begin the next part of the story knowing it'll be hard for her to resist a tale about the one character she always loved hearing about the most, which is these ads. No, it's not part of the story.

I just there's ads and they come here that This is where the ads go. This is where the first of the two breaks go. I trust you to find the four to fifteen second button. I mean, listen to these wonderful deals that we all believe in. Here they are and we're back. In the course of his journey to the West, Swoon Wu Kong angers several gods and gains heavenly powers, thus attracting the attention of the Jade Emperor.

At first, Hu Wong appoints him Keeper of the Horses, the lowliest position in heaven, intended as both a slight and a means to keep him under observation. An outsider to the deities politics, Swan Wukong does not immediately recognize the offense. Once he learns of it, he's outraged to contain the vengeful, destructive monkey, Hu Wong sends a band of his celestial warriors, but Swong Wukong defeats them all.

In doing so, much to Huong's chagrin, Sun Wukong earns himself the revered position as guardian of Chi Wang Mu's private orchards. Swang Wukong is pleased with his new role, having witnessed a fellow monkey die of old age earlier in his adventures. He fears death. He will do anything to avoid it, and his fortune is great for his appointment coincides with the rare ripening of the precious fruit.

He watches as preparations begin for the banquet, anticipating both the taste of heavenly fruit and an end to his mortality. For surely, as protector of the peaches, he is guaranteed a spot at the table. Yet the feast of peaches approaches and still no invitation arrives. Swoon Hou Koon thinks of the peaches of immortality laid out on a serving dish in the azure banquet hall, awaiting the arrival of Chi Wong Mu's honoured guests. He thinks of the way

that gods slight him at every opportunity. He thinks about how they never wanted him here, and how now that he's forced his way in, they still find ways to exclude him, and he finds a way to sneak inside. Lane's eyes are a war zone, torn between the hurt that must have been festering during our time apart and the legend of the Monkey King. She loves so much, and this tale is new to her. I discovered a translated copy of Journey to the West in the Dragon's

library the month after Mom died. Each night, curled up alone in on my warm, cozy bed, I read. If I held the book at just the right angle, kept him only my bedside lamp on, and turned away from the empty bed on the other side of the room, I could almost pretend Mom was still there, just out of sight, softly snoring as I whiled away the evening. Weeks passed before I read far enough to discover the tale of Swan Wu Kong and the Peaches of Immortality,

a tale Mom never told me. In Lane, despite the fruit at the heart of it, Despite my grandparents peach orchard, this one where my mom and Lane's mom grew up playing together while their parents picked fruit, Or maybe because of this orchard. When Lane and I were a ten and eleven. Lane's mom told us about the scorching hot summer when a wild fire destroyed most of the peach trees.

The way the sickly scent of charred fruit and thick miasma of smoke lingered for days, The way volunteers from town came over to help glean the salvageable fruit and discard the ruined ones, to call the dead trees and cut the rotten bits from the ones that could be saved, To make jokes with my awe Gong, to distract him from the pain of seeing his precious trees charred to ash, and bring my Almah discreet tissues to soak up the

tears she pretended she hadn't shed. Lane's mom was the one to tell us because decades after the fire, it was still too painful for my mom our grandparents to speak of. And even though it was my family's history, my family's tragedy, Lane, as much as I soaked up every word, it was Laine who wanted to write what she saw was a terrible wrong. It was Laine who wanted to bring the orchards back to life, to restore

the land to what it had once been. It was Laine who first suggested it would be worth trying to restore the soil, revitalized the land, to pick up the work my mom had begun before she had me, The work Mom would have continued once I was grown, had she not become ill. It's Lane who stands before me, now surrounded by the ghosts of my family's peach trees in the orchard that my grandparents had once thought would sustain my family forever. Why are you telling me this tale,

she asks, voice wavering between confusion and anger. Did she did your mom? Is this one of her stories? Mom died five years ago. My voice is even. I've learned to mask the ache that accompanies those words. Lane worries. Her lip bites back a tear. I'm sorry, Andrea, I nod, but I'm frustrated with myself. I would do almost anything to repair Lane's in my friendship, but I won't use Mom's death. I won't use Lane's compassion, her grief, her sympathy to my advantage. She didn't tell me about the

peaches of immortality. I learned about them later. Lane stiffens, her voice grows hard again. The dragons they had a library, and Lane kicks the base of the tree hard enough to make me flinch. A fucking course, a private little library they keep for themselves and their sick offense. How did it feel to work for them, to help them preserve the fruits they plundered from us, from farmers like your grandparents, to keep safe in their walled off greenhouses.

How did it feel to read the stories they made sure to save, to collect for themselves under the claim of preserving knowledge for the good of humanity? Why are you really here? Did they finally let you off your leash for one evening? Or are you on some mission for them? You know what, Andrea, it doesn't matter. I don't need you anymore. I'm done. Lane turns and strides off. Lane. I left, I left my work there. I'm done with them. She stops for a second, but doesn't turn around. I

see her take a deep breath. Then she shakes her head as if to remind herself she's done with me, and starts off again. I hurry to catch up. I didn't just leave, I call out after her. I also stole something precious from them. This time she does turn around. You did what? Let me finish the tale? Please, then I'll tell you everything fine, but I'm gonna keep walking, all right. I walk alongside lane, hoping like hell it

isn't the last time I get the chance. Swan Wou Kong eyes the centerpiece of the celestial banquet table, a bowl of eternal peaches, larger than any earthly peach, perfectly proportioned and plump with juice. His stomach growls something fierce, and his heart fills with longing for the fruit of the gods. The key to shedding his mortality lies within reach.

He takes one, waiting for Hu Wong to appear in a rage, for a band of celestial warriors to attack, for the guests to arrive and show their outrage in any number of ways, but no one stops him. Swan Wu Kong eats the peach of immortality. One is all

he needs, One is all anyone has ever needed. But he eyes the bowl of precious fruit grown in Si wang Mu's sacred guarded garden, hidden away and cultivated for her innermost circle, a guarantee that they'll stay eternal, stay in power, a gift for those who already have everything. The peaches are not meant for folk like him, Swan Wu Kong eats another peach, then another, his heart hardening with each bite. He's full to bursting, so full that hunger is not but a distant memory. But he keeps

eating until he's finished every last one. He washes them down with a vessel of heavenly wine, and just to spite them further, he seeks out the corner of Lautza, the father of Taoism, and steals his infamous pills of immortality. Swan Wu Kong swallows those two before he leaves shi Wang Mu Palace. He knows that what the hell? Andrea Lane interrupts, Is this supposed to be some sort of allegory?

Are you supposed to be Swan Who Kong, the heroic monkey king who stole something precious from the corrupt elite? Are you going to try to convince me you work there because you wanted to get close to them, to do something for good for us commoners. Lane's practically breathing fire. She's so angry. You know, when I saw your note, I wondered how you'd play it. Half the reason I'm here is because I wanted to know what excuse you'd come up with. Now I know you're going to paint

yourself as some sort of fucking martyr. At least I win that bet with myself. No, Lane, I don't think I'm the goddamn monkey king. I know I have no right to be mad, but her accusations cut away at my self control. My words tumble out unvarnished. Of course, I don't fucking think I'm Swan Wokong. And he wasn't doing it for the common good? Didn't you listen to the story? He was selfish as fuck. He only wanted to take because he was pissed that he wasn't invited.

Everything else was a justification, unlike these ads that have no justification for being here except for the way our economic system works. Here's ads, and we're back. Then? Why bother telling me the story? Is it because you think I sit around all day and daydream about stories, because I'm a dreamer who doesn't understand what the real world demands. That sometimes people have to give up childish ideals in favor of security and shelter and medicine. That things are

more complicated than I'm willing to admit. That some people grow up and grow out of being dreamers, while others let themselves get left behind, until all they have are dreams worth less than poisoned dirt. Her words steal away my anger, my breath, because they're not her words. They're mine, thrown at her in anger on that last day before

I left to work for the dragons. She says it like she's repeated the words in her head a thousand times, like she replays them in her mind before she goes to sleep, like every word is a fact, an inarguable truth,

a bludgeon. Her words hit me the same way my first taste of ripe, juicy peach did four months ago, the moment that knocked me from my comfortable complacency, that reminded me of how much I love the woman before me, who should have been there to taste that wonderful fruit we once dreamed we'd share some day when we'd regrown

the peach trees. I feel it again, the self loathing for every fiber of my well rested, well fed being, not only because I was willing to leave her behind, but because I was willing to stay long after I should have left the dragons. I want to crawl into a dark hole in the ground and wait there until my body grows still, my flesh cold, and I'm nothing but meat and bones, feeding the insects. I almost turned to leave again, but Laine deserves better. Lane always deserved

better than I gave her. I'm sorry. The words are a drop of water on a forest fire, as pointless as staying silent. I wish I could take back what I did. All I can do is tell you that I was wrong. I was absolutely wrong. I know her words cleave mine, sudden and vehement. No, she says again, that's the worst fucking part that you were right when you left. I had nothing without you. My dreams felt worthless, all the things I thought we could do to change

the world. She shakes her head. I've gone so many days without food, seeing so many people suffer and die because of the greed of people like the dragons, And as much as I want to say, all it did was make me more determined, that would be a goddamn lie. Sometimes I wonder why bother or too small to change anything. We're too insignificant to do anything but do what we can to survive. She lowers her voice to a whisper, and she won't look at me. Too many nights I

lay awake, wishing had gone with you. I put my hands on Lane's shoulders to stop her in her tracks, because I can't let her go another moment, believing this, because it breaks me to see her so broken. Lane doesn't pull away. She's shaking, and when I draw her close, I realize she's sobbing with her entire body. There's so little of her left. I hug her, and she cries on my shoulder, the same way she did half our lives ago, the day she showed up at my house

newly orphaned, face a wreck of blotchy tears. I listen now as she tells me how the last few years have been especially hard, so goddamned heart, I swallow a reply when she whispers that this doesn't mean that she forgives me. I wait until her tears run, until she wipes her face on the hem of her shirt, until she's spent, Lane, I say, and she looks up. You weren't wrong. Laane starts to shake her head, but it's half hearted, like she's too tired to care anymore. I

put more force into my voice. I need her to know I'm not just saying it. I'm the one who was wrong. We need dreamers. We need people like you who can imagine the way things could be. Dragons think they're the only ones who are truly free because they've shackled everyone else. They think that access to all the world's most precious things makes their lives richer, fuller. But all they've done is create private, little fortresses of fear. They play petty games with each other because they fear

one another too. They've taken everything, and so they're afraid to lose anything. I wish I could say that I regret my choice to leave. I can't not when that choice gave my mom three more years. Shouldn't have said the shit I said just to make myself feel better about what I was doing. I shouldn't have stayed for five years after she died. I want to say I did it because I had some grand plan to learn what I could from them and upend everything. But the

truth is I got comfortable. I told myself the security was worth it. Leariness has seeped back into Lane's expression, but she doesn't leave. At least she's listening. People like me lack imagination. I swallow hard. It's not an admission. I like to make people like me. Can only see what's right in front of them. Sometimes you never could see the orchards the way I could. I look around, trying to picture the trees the way they were in Lane's mom's stories. I wished for so long that I could.

I say, Lane's sighs. It's a long, weary sound. What does it matter anymore, It makes no difference if you regret it or not. It happened. You left, I stayed. We're here now, and it's too late. The world has only gotten worse. There's nothing to come back to. All my dreams crumbled to dust, just like you knew they would. You should have stayed where you were. I shake my head. There are two things I learned there in the dragon's enclave. First that the fruit of today never tastes quite like

the fruit of yesterday. Thanks to breeding, to natural selection, to climate change, fruit evolved in taste and texture over time. There's evidence that peaches were domesticated as far back as eight thousand years ago in northwest China. But those ancient Chinese peaches, they're gone forever. She eyes me, okay. And Second, there is one good thing about the dragons. Lane's lips turned down. I almost laugh at the skepticism radiating off her.

Oh yeah, what the hell is good about them? They keep really good records on how to care for their precious things. I pull something from my pocket and hand it to her. Lane's eyes narrow, but she accepts the small journal filled with the notes I memorized and painstakingly copied from the Dragon's records over the course of the

last four months. Her brows furrow. What's this? I hand her the other item from my pocket, the thing I've been saving, hoping it'll be enough, A small cloth wrapped bundle. She unravels the cloth, and her breath catches. Is that is it? What I think it is? The wonder in her voice makes everything that went into this moment worth it. It is. Lane turns over the ridged, blush pink peach pit,

running her fingers over its smooth grooves. She wipes her eyes and laughs involuntarily, a little hiccup of a thing, and then her shoulders slouch again. But it's a waste. You should have smuggled out food in medicine. That's what we need most. I did that too, She shakes her head, still staring at the peach pit. Then why bother with this one tree won't change the world. Besides, it's not just that the dragons stole the last fertile peach trees.

It's that this soil won't grow them anymore. Your grandparents orchard will never go back to what it used to be. No, it won't, I say, surprise alights Lane's face. It probably won't, I amend. Maybe someday the peaches will return here. But there are pockets of the world that it will still be able to grow them, or places that will be able to grow them for the first time. This isn't the only peach pit or the only fruit we want

to bring back to the world. Outside the dragon's protective little bubbles, there are many of us, so many more than I ever could have imagined, smuggling out the things they hoard, the plants, the animals, the stories, the technology. Others are fighting in small ways, setting up a future where we take back what is ours. But this is part of it. People wrote stories about fruit trees, built legends around them because they mattered. You were right to dream. Lane.

Hope flares in her eyes, and it's the most beautiful thing. We'll travel find a spot for this pit. I have a few places we can start. I gesture towards the notebook, and Lane hands it back to me absently. And if those ones don't work, we'll find another and try again. We'll test them, we'll grow them, We'll keep trying. We'll do anything we can. Our world is never going back to what it used to be. Peaches aren't what they

used to be. But with a lot of effort and a little luck, maybe you and I will be the first to taste the peaches from the orchard of tomorrow. I reach out my hand, throat tight with hope. I don't deserve a second chance, but Lane was always a better person than I. Laane looks at me a gaze that pierces me through. Then she looks beyond me. She takes several deep breaths, and I brace myself for her refusal, for the pain I know I deserve. This time, she'll

be the one to walk away. She wraps the precious pit back up in the cloth and tucks it away, and she places her hand in mine, and though her skin is cold, warmth floods me, lighting up my entire body. She glances my way, and her expression is still wary, still uncertain, but she doesn't loosen her grip or let go. You are going to tell me the end of that, swan mu kong taale right. I smile at her, blinking back the tears that fill my eyes. I'll tell you on the way. I'll tell you every tale I read.

She squeezes her hand in mine, and together we take our first steps towards the place where the peaches will grow once more. And that's the story. I hope you all liked it half as much as I did, because then you still liked it a lot.

this is an amazingly well read, well written story. I must said, well read story, and you know well that too. I don't know, I have no idea if I did well, but whatever So if you enjoyed this story, if you go to Kelseyu's website, which is k E L s e a yu dot com, all of her publications are listed and linked there, so you can read so much more of her work. And when I asked her what she wanted to tell you all, like what's a plug here?

At the end, she said, the story's most likely to fit a similar audience as the Orchard of Tomorrow are in memories, We Drown from Clerk's wor World, a scarcity of sharks in Reckoning, and Harvest of the Deep in fantasy. I have two books out Bound Feet, which is a horror novella and It's Only a Game, which is a young adult thriller that just came out last Tuesday. And I have another horror novella coming out next fall with

Titan that's called Demon Song. It also ties in Swan Wu Kong and Chinese folklore, so anyone interested in that story element might enjoy it. And I'm looking forward to finding those books. They seem really good. All right. Well, if you listen to this on Cool People Did Cool Stuff, you should also check out it could happen here. And if you listen to this on It Could Happen Here. You should also check out cool People Who Did Cool Stuff.

I'm Margaret Kildoy and I will talk to you all next week with another episode of cool Zone Media book club Club glubul.