Hello, Starshine. The Earth says hello. And welcome to the Lightspeed Magazine Story Podcast. I'm your host, Janina Edwards. In this episode, you'll be listening to The Temporal Displacement of the Graves by Russell Nichols and The Price of Manners by Martin Cahill. First up is our short shot, the temporal displacement of the grave, narrated by me, Janina Edwards. Coming up right after this message. DC High Volume. Batman. The Dark Knight's Division.
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It's a podcast where leading experts give you valuable intel that you can use in your life today. I'm the host, Mike Carruthers, and with over 1,000 episodes and over 4,000 mostly 5-star reviews, I invite you to check out Something You Should Know wherever you listen. Welcome back. And now, The Temporal Displacement of the Grave by Russell Nichols. As dead bodies floated down the Mississippi, Mrs. Graves couldn't shake the urge to dance.
It was ingrained in her bones, dancing. Growing up in New Orleans, death was once celebrated. A spirited second line surging through Treme to the blare of trumpets and rumble of drums. But that was before the levees broke, before the waters rose, before the music stopped. Honey, I'm home, Mrs. Graves said, poking her head into their run-down trailer. I found one!
Mr. Graves sat hunched over a bucket, too absorbed in his task, wringing out towels to look up. Storms fit to be even more vicious tonight. Then it's high time we relocate. He eyed the unmarked bag in her hand. What's that you got? This, she said, lifting out a taped-up box, is our ticket. chrono shift turbo just press shift you'll be gone in a gif Mr. Graves hooted. You believe I finally found one? Got it for half off, too? Mrs. Graves said, grabbing a towel to wipe down the handheld device.
Those are still wet, dear. Mr. Graveside. Little water won't hurt nobody. Now, my love, where would you like to relocate? He exhaled When the chrono-shift turbo first came out, he had ideas for days. But now, Mr. Graves had found a certain peace in this post-apocalyptic flood zone. How you know it'd still work, he asked. Features Temporal displacement engine, turbocharged. Adjustable temporal range, 1 day to 200 years. Portable in compact design, 0.8 inches by 2.9 inches by 0.5 inches.
Power Source. Rechargeable Quantum Energy Core. Mrs. Graves snapped. I got it. How about we venture back to when we got hitched? Mr. Graves raised his hand. I object on the grounds of not wanting to interact with your mother ever again. God rest her soul. Mrs. Graves She could have predicted this would happen. She'd been married long enough. Every time she presented any idea, here came Mr. Graves, shooting it down like an anti-ship missile. She snapped again. I got it!
How about we go back to when we were kids? He scoffed. Listen, fantasies about the past are fool's gold, and you the fool. Mrs. Graves puffed out her cheeks ready to pop. It was already dust She could see this going on all night. How about this? How about I go where I want to go, then you go where you want to go. Yeah, that's what's happening. Okay, now, how do I work this thing? Usage instructions. Power on the chrono shift turbo using the activation switch.
Set your desired temporal destination using the control panel. Press the shift button to initiate time travel. To return to the present time, hold shift plus return. See you when I get back, Mrs. Graves said, and pressed the shift button. In a jiff, she was gone. Mr. Graves shrugged. Once his wife made up her mind there was no one making it. He'd been married long enough.
Feeling hungry from all this time travel hokum, he sauteed onions, bell peppers, and celery. Let that simmer with leftover red beans. Poured everything over a bed of fries. He sat and ate alone as rain began pattering the roof. Mr. Graves imagined life without his wife. He'd miss some things, sure. Her romantic impulses, her dance moves, her Louis Armstrong impression. But who would he be without the weight of that woman's anxiety?
Her never-ending pursuit of some elusive ghost called happiness made him feel so undervalued over time. Now that he thought about it, Hopping back in time to stop himself from ever getting down on bended knee sounded mighty pleasant. It was decided. Now, all he had to do was wait for her to return home safely. Safety precautions. Do not exceed the recommended temporal range to avoid temporal instabilities. Exercise discretion and responsibility when altering past events.
Consider the ecological consequences and potential ripple effects. See Butterfly Protocol. Mrs. Graves had entered her desired temporal destination on the control panel June 28th, 1928, Chicago. She wanted to witness her idol, the legendary Louis Satchmo Armstrong, perform the iconic improvisational masterpiece, West End Blues. But the device torpedoed those plans, and Mrs. Graves found herself adrift.
from a bustling factory building Liberty ships in 1942 to the overcrowded hospital during her first chemo treatment in 2031 to a vibrant dance hall in Harlem in 1926. where she was a little girl dancing all by herself. Mrs. Graves appeared, then disappeared. What went wrong, she couldn't say, but all that movement made her ill. And when she stopped, Mrs. Grace was back in her rundown trailer, hunched over, vomit all over the floor. I'm home.
Device maintenance and storage. To maintain longevity, periodically clean the ChronoShift Turbo with a soft lint-free cloth. To ensure optimal functionality, store the device in a cool dry location to prevent damage from moisture. Mr. Graves didn't ask what happened, just held out a hand for the device. His turn. Down on her knees, Mrs. Graves cleaned up her mess with a towel.
If she handed the device over, might not see him again but he dealt with her impulsivities for over a century how knowing him he'd probably go back in time to stop himself from ever getting down on bended knees But she didn't want to lose her man, her love. Time had no value if she didn't have him to spend it with. Mrs. Graves set the device on the table, then went to their record player. She put on Louis Armstrong's What a Wonderful World. She opened her arms to Mr. Graves with a pout.
May I have one last dance for you? Mr. Graves sighed. He looked at the device, looked at her, then back at the device, then nodded. And they danced as the rain came down at the end of the world. That was The Temporal Displacement of the Grave by Russell Nichols, narrated by me, Janina Edwards.
Russell Nichols is a speculative fiction writer and endangered journalist. Raised in Richmond, California, he got rid of all of his stuff in 2011 to live out of a backpack with his wife, vagabonding around the world ever since. Look for him at RussellNichols.com. Janina Edwards is an award-winning narrator of 500 books. Her work has been acknowledged with nine Earphones Awards, an Audi win, seven Audi finalist nominations, and two Society of Voice Arts and Sciences nominations.
She also voices essays for the New York Times Modern Love column. Next, we have The Price of Manners by Martin Cahill. Coming right up. ready to launch your business get started with the commerce platform made for entrepreneurs Shopify especially designed to help you start your business with easy customizable themes that let you build your brand. Marketing tools that get your products out there. Integrated shipping solutions that actually save you time. In person.
Shopify is made for entrepreneurs like you. Sign up for your $1 a month trial at Now, please enjoy The Price of Manners, narrated by Stefan Rodnicki. The Price of Manners by Martin Cahill Everyone believes they'll be the one to crack the curve. It's that very belief that assures their doom. Arrogance has always been one of the currencies of the brilliant.
Students, especially those from the Society of Myriad Mysteries, are rich with it. They spend it without knowing in the arch of a skeptic's eyebrow or the scoff of hearty denial. These luminous youths have not been taught to be misers with such a precious resource to hoard it dragon-like to their hearts. to only pay when the gain outweighs the cost. No one teaches them that their lives are worth just as much as their discoveries.
And so, like the fireflies, they resemble, eager and bright with summer's potential. Too often, these students flare out brilliantly before being crushed. Crushed by what? The cursed tome does not decide. It's neither malicious nor evil, or gleeful at the destruction wrought in its name. No. The cursed tome was made to be what it is, and no more. Its secrets are its own. But in the way that it is alive and desires, like any creature, it desires this most of all, for someone to understand it.
and in understanding it, finally break its curse. Who made it, of course, has been lost to time. Most of the books held in the vault of Vellum are so old that the names of those who created them have faded from their pages altogether. in each of these ancient books. Identity can only be gleaned in the scrawl of notation found in margins or footnotes Handwriting in ancient ink.
cramped and wizened, off-color splotches from old tea or coffee, still somehow smelling as fresh as it did when it met enchanted paper in ages hence. Why those smells persist can only be guessed at. But most academics agree. The books, alive as they are, miss their old masters and friends and keep them alive how they can. These tombs and books and collections once held secrets like whales held breath. And the academics of the society hungered for every one of them, like the hawk sought the hare.
Some were thin, unassuming chapbooks that with a single page of simple prose might crack open the mind of a student. introducing stars into their eyes as fundamental truths made themselves known. Others were massive, written by giant kin scholars. Many students, after hours of study on hand and knee, crawling across paragraphs, would simply fall asleep on the paper, wrapping themselves in pages rather than return to their dorm.
Memoirs of Gods Script glowing gold with angelic choirs in their spines, visible only at dawn. Blackened books of ash that could only be read over an open fire. Words flaring to life at the touch of heat. Books of sorrow. And books of blood. and the books of time made manifest, each costing dearly in tears or exsanguination or age itself. Knowledge comes with a price, always.
And over many centuries, the academics of the Society of Myriad Mysteries had done everything in their power to find that price for each and every book in their possession. that they had been for the majority successful is a testament to their brilliance, strength, and the sheer number of undergrad acolytes deemed suitable test subjects. But the cursed tome? Its price had eluded them all these years.
That undiscovered price and deemed it according to the minds of the society well and truly cursed For, in the seeking of it, the tome had earned a history of blood splashed across its pages, its price eluding even the most brilliant for years. and in their relentless pursuit of that knowledge, its cost slowly came to light. From the outside, it was entirely benign, like a shadow on an x-ray. Its dark red color was not bound in orchid petals, dragon scales, or human skin.
Its bookmarked tassel was not a phoenix feather, still warm, but plain red silk. its spine still sturdy, uncracked after so much use, the glue strong and holding. When the book was opened, its pages were entirely blank. After much testing, if there was more than a single soul within its vicinity, nothing would appear and the minds of those nearby would dim and dither. Some magic making them forget about the tome entirely. No, it is only when one was alone with the book that words appeared.
Which words appear in whose scroll was different for everyone? Professor Ignatius Depew said in his final hour of life to the hospital scribe that the words on the page resembled that of his late mother. Her fate chickens scratch, flooding every page, hundreds of them overflowing with stories, confession, love for him and him alone. from a parent who had been gone from his life longer than she had even been in it.
He had been reading for eleven days straight, unable to pull himself from the ghost of his mother for any earthly reason. Hence his impending death. When he learned why he was dying, he looked as though he was seeing past all the professors in the room and smiled directly at someone no one else saw. Professor Ignatius Depew whispered, I understand, and promptly passed away. It was a decade before someone experimented again. A young academic recently brought into the society named Florence Thrum.
Hoping to make a name for herself, her and a cohort of other young academics broke into the vault and took the cursed tome to a room of their own devising. This room had shutters and walls and sliding panels to isolate each other to see if they could trick the tome into thinking it was alone with one of them. while the other six listened and witnessed through glass panels. When the Keeper of Mysteries, Headland Lamar, learned of this, he sent out a team of secret keepers to investigate.
It didn't take long to find the cohort, for the stench of meat and blood seeped up from the bowels of the society's campus like souls bound for golden heaven. It took weeks to scour the red from the walls and scrub viscera free from the tile. A shame, they said, at each individual funeral. A true shame. youth is wasted on the young, and so on.
A year later, in his cups, Headland realized what had bothered him about the whole affair. Of all the bodies, Florence's was the least marred, the most whole in death. summoning her ghost with the help of a book of the dead, always eager to please the living. She appeared, dark skin shimmering with soft sunlight, her white shirt and tie stained with the blood of her friends. Headland felt a deep sadness grip his heart.
and wondered very briefly why they let the young become food for their mysteries, devoured in their pursuit of knowledge. And then he put that aside to satisfy his curiosity, unaware of his own contribution to the sad cycle. Of your cohort, only you were spared a grisly death. Can you remember what happened? What did you say to the book? It was not wise to demand of the dead, but Headland was drunk on more than power and needed answers more than he needed air.
The ghost of Florence Thrum shook her head. I don't remember much, Keeper. I knew I wanted power. Real power. And words appeared on the pages before me, written in my own hand. And as I read them, I could feel that power, electric at my fingertips. And when I grasped for it, Her spectral visage sputtered and sizzled like water in a hot pan. I felt my control slip. I didn't even have time to warn my friends. Oh, my poor friend!
a wail emerged out of her, long and racking and deep, a howl of the soul. Her form shuddered, and Headland forced his hazy will into the spell. Tell me, please, what happened? I just remember saying to the book, please, please, and then I... Lawrence vanished. The Book of the Dead slammed shut. The force of it took the candlelight, leaving Headland in a darkness richer and emptier than any heat felt before. Please, he wondered.
Magicians and academics, commanded and cajoled, bargained and bartered, coerced or flat-out demanded, why did please make a difference? A century passed, and every academic that fed themselves to the cursed tomb whittled away at the parameters of its price. Hierophant Diviner read from the book at the top of the tallest hill of Old and Slisville. Before she fell into bouts of insanity that would be her doom, she claimed she saw how the universe began and how it would end.
Both were heartbreaking, as much as they were also somewhat boring. Jacob Duquesne, bearer of the Golden Ring, went down deep into the old catacombs of Kofir-le-Shizil, under city of the Stone Star King. There in the ruins, he read the book observed from a mile away by his graduate assistant, Frederico Sestina. Before he left the society altogether, raven dark hair now permanently snow white, Frederico whispered that he had never seen a man unravel like that.
like one's soul where a bit of thread the tone pulled on until nothing was left. Jacob was given a year before being taken off life support. By the end of the century, the following had been learned over the course of twelve students, five professors, two hierophants, and, yes, One keeper had Landlamar, who, like all those before him, could not let a mystery remain just that. The tome's price seemed to be its curse. Its curse was ancient. Its curse was powerful beyond measure.
And the reason its curse was so powerful was that it seemed the book could provide the answer to any question, grant any wish, unveil any mystery. cure any wound, and truly bring to light any secret of the known and quantifiable universe. It became the single most coveted item within the society for one reason alone. For a brief moment, anyone could know anything they desired. for writ in confessions and obituaries, thesis papers and treatises. It seemed that was its bittersweet gift.
that the book would give you anything you wanted, and then moments later, you would take it to your grave. Student after professor after Hierophant yearned to crack the secret, and in turn the tome burned through them, each thinking they'd be the one. because surely the price to pay was not death. Many tomes dealt in death. So why would this one do so as well? No. There must be another price. Something they were missing.
And so the cursed tone continued to earn its moniker, granting glimpses of the truth before wrenching soul after soul into afterlives beyond. The world progressed. Technology improved, advanced. The world grew. And so did the society, becoming public, open, and magnanimous. One fine spring afternoon, the current keeper of mysteries, Sheila Hendrickson, decided with the aid of her council that the time of secrets was at an end.
From now on, the society would stop wasting lives on a secret that meant to stay hidden, and they would work with what magics they knew to better the world they lived in. Many rejoiced. The cursed tomb did not. In fact, alive as it was. It despaired, for what it wanted, which no one else knew, was to be understood, to be unlocked. To be, in its own way, loved. For a long time, no one touched its cover, opened its pages. Its binding did not crease. Its ink did not warm by the touch of human hand.
For a long time, the cursed tomb was alone. until it feels itself move, cradled against a warm chest. It feels hands on it, breath above it, and does not dare to hope. A young voice says with confidence, not arrogance. I think I know. I just want to know. Me too, the tome thinks. The tomb does not see the way we see, but it can sense. They're young. They aren't supposed to be in here. And they're hungry.
The tome begins to despair. It knows youth. It knows hunger. Nothing good came of combining the two. Then, tome? A question. It had never been asked a question. It liked that. Again, tome, may I please open you? And in its own way, the tome says, yes. It opens of its own accord, showing a brilliant green-white blank page. The youthful voice, with a measure of awe in their voice. Tome?
Could you please tell me about your price? I really don't think it's a curse. I just... I think no one's ever thought to ask you. Could you please tell me... like a pen clicking into a cap. It suddenly made sense to the tome. Of course it wasn't a curse. Its master had never intended that. And so, across the blank page, the tome writes to the young academic about its beginnings, about its master, who it loves still like a faithful hound.
A master gifted with magic, deep and true. A master who wanted to share that magic with the world through a beautiful tone of her own devising. A tome she made by hand over a peaceful and beautiful year, loving each and every page with her full heart. that love alchemizing into magic from cover to cover in each daub of glue through each thread of the silk tassel. By year's end, much life had been drawn from her mortal body and placed into the tome she loved so. For everything has its price.
But she was happy. So happy. In a voice weak from disuse, she spoke to her tome, placing that final scrap of magic within it before she gave it to the world. and my tome whom I love. I ask that you open to any and all who would seek an answer. Help people how you can, and love them like I love you. But if that soul be not polite, if that voice demand without respect, if that person should elide common decency in their search to fill the hole in their heart.
I ask you, strike, swift and true, for there is no viler being in this world than they who demand more than they provide, who take more than they give. By my word, and my heart. of you. And the tome, loving her, said it would. The youth sits there, reading. It's the happiest the tome has been in ages, maybe since it was born. When they get to the end, the youth gently shuts the tone and holds it in their arms, embracing it like an old and true friend.
Warmth suffuses both of them. As they say, thank you for letting me read you. Your master seems so wonderful. I'm glad she made you. Thank you. The tome of manners, for that was its true name, is put back on its shelf. happy and excited for the days to come. For maybe now people would know, and they wouldn't mind coming to read from it every so often, if they knew to be polite. to take care. And many have been remembering to say please and thank you, to treat it well and with respect.
for all knowledge has a price. But not all prices must be paid in harm. Sometimes it is enough to show a little love and to ask with respect. Sometimes it is enough to thank even a book for their troubles. That was The Price of Manners by Martin Cahill. Narrated by Stefan Rudnicki.
Martin Cahill is an Ignite Award-nominated writer living just north of New York City and a graduate of the Clarion Writers' Workshop of 2014. His debut book Audition for the Fox arrives from Tachyon Publications, September 2025. He is also the author of the forthcoming Critical Role Armory of Heroes and a contributing writer to Critical Role Vox Machina Stories Untold. You can find his short fiction in Clark's World, Reactor, Weird Horror, and many other magazines.
His short story, God Meat, appeared in the best American science fiction and fantasy 2019 anthology. Martin also writes and has written book reviews, articles, and personal essays for Reactor, Catapult, Ghostfire Gaming, Book Riot, Strange Horizons, and the Barnes & Noble Science Fiction and Fantasy blog. You can find them online at McFly Cahill 90.
Stefan Rudnicki is a Grammy-winning audiobook producer and an award-winning narrator who has won 17 audio awards as well as more than 35 earphones awards and been named one of Audiophile's Golden Voices. Stefan has been producing Lightspeed Magazine podcasts since 2010, eventually adding Nightmare and Fantasy Magazine, and sharing the Hugo Awards for Best Semi-Prosine in 2014 and 2015.
I don't have much time. I am being transported by the ecclesiast vassal Markava to stand trial for heresy of the highest order. But I will not renounce my work. And to my last breath, I will speak the truth of this plague-ridden world. That ours is not a loving God, and we are not its favored children. The Heresies of Radolf Bundwein, Chapter 2. Now available throughout the known world. The Warning Woods has haunting horror stories that are sure to linger with you long after listening.
I'm Miles Tridel, writer and narrator of The Warning Woods. Each week, I write an original scary story and share it with you. the Warning Woods. I've written two novels and nearly 200 short stories spanning the horror genre. If you're into scary stories, you need to check out The Warning Woods. Listen on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Just search for The Warning Woods and click play at your own risk.
In humanity's search for other worlds, we found something unexpected. It's a massive collection of tiny pocket realities, and each one is a story. So we can actually transcend our usual four dimensions of space and time to go physically into these stories? But when we explored those stories things didn't go as planned None of us spend ¡Eso! Subscribe and listen to music. The latest audio drama from And I bid you. Lightspeed magazine is edited by John Joseph Adams and published by Adamant Prime.
The podcast is co-produced by Stefan Ratnicki. Alison Bell-Pews at Skyboat Media. And the stories and podcasts are copyright 2021. post-production was by Alex Barton at face shift and our music was composed and performed by Thanks for listening, Starshine. This is your host, Janina Edwards, returning you to reality.