James Bryan's Podcast

Got the images.  Let's see if I can come up with music soundtrack to go with.  Coming soon....

Youtube will cut the transcript, as usual.  So instead, you can find this freely available story at Project Gutenberg.   Note that the gift is not the material object exchanged, but the heart of the giver that willingly sacrifices for the good of the other.  How wonderful is that! How does it relate to Jesus and the Magi? Jesus was just another snot-nosed kid, but the Heart of the God of All sacri...

The First Thanksgiving ALL through the first summer and the early part of autumn the Pilgrims were busy and happy. They had planted and cared for their first fields of corn. They had found wild strawberries in the meadows, raspberries on the hillsides, and wild grapes in the woods. In the forest just back of the village wild turkeys and deer were easily shot. In the shallow waters of the bay there...

The Furnished Room O. Henry Restless, shifting, fugacious as time itself is a certain vast bulk of the population of the red brick district of the lower West Side. Homeless, they have a hundred homes. They flit from furnished room to furnished room, transients forever--transients in abode, transients in heart and mind. They sing "Home, Sweet Home" in ragtime; they carry their lares et penates in a...

The Open Window HH Munro (Saki)   "My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel," said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; "in the meantime you must try and put up with me." Framton Nuttel endeavored to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal vis...

This is a long one (for a short story), and Faulkner is known for his use of words that are difficult to grasp and pronounce.  So don't get stressed.  Relax.  And you will enjoy this to the end. WHEN Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, wh...

Bartleby Herman Melville   I am an old lawyer, and I have three men working for me. My business continued to grow and so I decided to get one more man to help write legal papers. I have met a great many people in my days, but the man who answered my advertisement was the strangest person I have ever heard of or met. He stood outside my office and waited for me to speak. He was a small man, quiet a...

Narrator:  A man stood on a railroad bridge in Alabama looking down into the swift waters of the Owl Creek River below. The mans hands were tied behind his back. There was a rope around his neck. The rope was tied to part of the bridge above him. Three soldiers of the northern army stood near the prisoner, waiting for their captains orders to hang him. Everybody was ready. The prisoner stood quiet...

True!  Nervous -- very, very nervous I had been and am!  But why will you say that I am mad?  The disease had sharpened my senses -- not destroyed them. Above all was the sense of hearing.  I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth.  I heard many things in the underworld.  How, then, am I mad?  Observe how healthily -- how calmly I can tell you the whole story. It is impossible to say how...

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow   Narrator: The valley known as Sleepy Hollow hides from the world in the high hills of New York state. There are many stories told about the quiet valley. But the story that people believe most is about a man who rides a horse at night. The story says the man died many years ago during the American revolutionary war. His head was shot off. Every night he rises from his...

Strummin' Through the Ashes of Free Speech   The college town of Crestview, Oregon, was a tinderbox in October 2025, its streets a circus of protest signs and kombucha-stained hoodies, the air thick with rage and Wi-Fi. Papa, a grizzled drifter with a face like a sun-baked saddle and eyes sharp as a hawk's talon, leaned against a graffiti-smeared lamppost, his busted six-string guitar slung across...

"4 Da Boys – Strummin' Through the North Korean Nightmare"   Papa's playin A raw, off-key guitar riff, like a campfire tune twisted by a cold wind off the DMZ, backed by a gritty, defiant hum   Alright, sons, huddle up by the fire. This is  4 Da Boys , where your old Papa, strums this beat-up guitar—soundin' like a rusty tractor tryin' to play "Boston" tune—and dishes the raw truth about our Fabul...

"Strummin' Through the Scales of Justice"   Papa's noodling A raw, off-key guitar riff, like a campfire tune twisted by a jailhouse wind, backed by a gritty, defiant hum   Alright, sons, huddle up by the fire. This is  4 Da Boys , where Papa, strums this beat-up guitar—soundin' like a drunk mule tryin' to play "Sweet Home Alabama"—and dishes the raw truth about thinkin like a man. Tonight, we're m...

"4 Da Boys – Strummin' Through the Quest for Good"   Papa's hummin' a gritty, soulful tune by a campfire twisted by wind   Alright, sons, huddle up by the fire. This is  4 Da Boys , where Papa strums this beat-up guitar—badly, like a drunk coyote tryin' to play "Imagine"—and lays down the raw truth about bein' a man. My chords are shaky, but my heart's iron, and tonight we're marchin' through the...

Strummin' Through the Woke Façade   The college town of Newhaven, Oregon, was a fevered clown show in 2025, its streets a riot of protest signs and artisanal kale, the air thick with sanctimony and burnt espresso. Papa, a grizzled drifter with a face like a sun-scorched hubcap and eyes sharp as a switchblade, lounged against a lamppost, his busted six-string guitar slung across his back, its strin...

What would you Kill for? 4 Da Boys – Strummin' Through the Minefield of "What Would You Kill For?"   Alright, sons, huddle up by the fire. This is  4 Da Boys , where your old man, Papa, strums this beat-up guitar—badly, like a drunk coyote tryin' to play "Dixie"—and lays down the raw truth about bein' a man of Principle. My chords are shaky, but my heart's iron, and today we're marchin' through a...

When you feel like it's time to give up the fight, give up the fight!  Get back to where you were created to be in the first place Papa's Redemption: Strummin' Through the Dark   The Nebraska night was a bleeding scar, the plains reeking of frost and despair, the stars above sharp as broken glass. Papa, a weathered drifter with a face like cracked leather and eyes like smoldering embers, sat on a...

Papa's Raid: Strummin' Through the Woke Abyss   The Seattle night was a festering wound, the city's alleys choked with the stench of burnt rubber and desperation, its neon signs flickering like a junkie's last hope. Papa, a grizzled drifter with a face like cracked pavement and eyes sharp as razor wire, slunk through the shadows, his busted six-string guitar slung across his back, its strings twan...

Papa's Quest: Strummin' Through the Heart of Evil   The Verdaran night was a fevered vision, its twin moons spilling green light like God's own tears over jungles that throbbed like a living wound, the air thick with sap and the electric snarl of unseen predators. Papa, a grizzled wanderer with a face like scorched leather and eyes sharp as shattered flint, crouched on a vine-snarled ridge, his bu...

A cover, of course.  The original (as far as I know) was by Jamie Cullum.  My version is with a gang of gifted friends on Kompoz.com.  I'll update with more deets on the Kompoz mob (these guys are fabulous).   This is just to tide you over.  My next story (episode) will be tomorrow.

Swift Coyote's Warpath: Drumming Through the Bloodlands   The Comanchería night was a howling void, the plains reeking of dust and blood, the stars above sharp as arrowheads. Swift Coyote, a Comanche brave with a lean frame and eyes like burning coals, crouched in the buffalo grass, his war drum—a stretched hide taut as a scalp—thumping low, its beat a pulse of death.   He was no farmer, no builde...

Lenin's Descent: The Bloody Forge of Utopia   The Petrograd night was a frozen abattoir, the air thick with coal smoke and the metallic tang of blood, the city's streets a jagged scar of war and starvation. Vladimir Lenin, a wiry specter with a bald skull gleaming like a guillotine blade, paced his Kremlin office, boots grinding ash into splintered floorboards. The Russian Civil War howled outside...