So You Want to Run a Temporal Coffee Shop by R. P. Sand

"So You Want to Run a Temporal Coffee Shop" is a story by R. P. Sand from the December 2024 issue of Worlds of Possbility. This story is narrated by the author. To read the full text of the story, visit https://www.juliarios.com/so-you-want-to-run-a-temporal-coffee-shop-a-story-by-r-p-sand/

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Welcome to the OMG Julia Podcast, where we discuss creative
lives and processes. And today we have a story from
the December twenty twenty four issue of Worlds of Possibility.
This one is So you want to run a temporal
Coffee Shop? By R. P. Sand and it is narrated

(00:24):
by the author. Let's get right into it.

Speaker 2 (00:35):
So you want to run a temporal coffee shop? By RP.
Sand narrated by the author. Believe you me, the work
is harder than it looks. You still have time to
decline this position, gather your things and leave. But if
you're certain, take this apron of fifteenth century linen embroidered

(00:59):
with basilisk thread by the callous, experienced hands of a
Mrmish seamstress stained green with dye from the twentieth and
listen closely, for this is what you must know. Number one.
Listen to our customers, and I do not simply mean
listen to what they say. Pay close heed to each breath, pulse, chirrup, twinkle, snort.

(01:27):
We are the caretakers of our patron's hearts. All who
tread through our amber studded doors are equal, whether demonically
or benevolently inclined from one to upsida to fairy godmother,
each swathed in their own triumphs and tribulations. They enter
vulnerable and trusting. Yes, even those with wild eyes and

(01:50):
grim snarls. That manticor is a regular of ours, whose
drink of choice is cold brew macha peppered with beetle wings,
and it is our charge to make them feel at home.
This means protecting the secrets they unfurl within these sylvan walls.
Their confidence is to be tucked safely within our hearts,

(02:11):
away from prying eyes and ears and spores. This means
deciphering from their gait whether they wish to chat or
whether they wish to be left alone. This means remembering
their usual orders, or when they peer indecisively at the menu,
matching the perfect beverage to their mood. An anxious twitch

(02:33):
in a dakshassa's third arm may call for a vanilla
infused hot chocolate. Creases of frustration in a griffin's fur
feathered brow may call for the soothing lineaments of peppermint
and moonwinkle green TEA silverlet twinkles in a valkyrie's eyes
may call for a jovial cappuccino spiced with cinnamon and paprika.

(02:56):
I share now the example of Anissana, the fawness lady
in waiting to Catherine of Aragon. Anasana has a proclivity
for court politics, delighting in cunning maneuvers, betrayals, coups, and
has a titanic sweet tooth. She inserts herself as minor
courtier personas most recently in sixteenth century England, and takes

(03:20):
to giggling over heavily sugared beverages with a side of cake,
regaling the latest to her gossip worthy court occurrence. There's
always been a sheen of disconnect to her tails, indicating
her to be no more than an impartial, albeit voyeuristic observer.
But to my surprise, I've ascertained a subtle shift in

(03:43):
her demeanor when she speaks of Catherine. Stars of affection
bloom in her pale eyes as she talks, and no
wonder for this queen is skillful, crafty, a fierce warrior
not only on the battlefield but in court, a relentless spirit.
So unlike other women, Anissana has known God's blood that

(04:05):
Henry Anissana will say, pounding of fists on the polished
wooden bar, cake crumbs dancing on her plate, and that preening,
soggy fern, followed by the name of whoever caught the
King's eye at the time. On her last visit, it
was Twilight, plum Cake and Anne. I could not, of course,
tell her things were about to get worse that Anne

(04:25):
would proceed to supplant Catherine. If I could get my
hands on their necks, I would snap them both, and
I have no doubt she would. But there is a
reason she's remained hidden so successfully, the same reason any
of us do not draw attention to ourselves. Magicals who
walk among humans, no matter how oriented to good or chaos,

(04:47):
are all agreed on one thing, that our world shall
remain hidden from theirs. Humans have an insufferable tendency to
ruin things. I assess Anissana's mo whenever she visits, and
if she appears particularly melancholic, I select Masalajai with any
number of soothing add ons. I went so far as

(05:10):
to add Spidermer when she despaired that Bessy, once made
of honor to Catherine, had borne Henry the eighth, a
son where Catherine could not she took to wailing, a
spine piercing undulation that risks the chagrin of my other patrons. Hence,
the particularly potent choice of ingredient spidermer is the extent

(05:31):
to which I'll go. I do not allow alcohol on
these premises, not after the Rhenish incident. It worked, of course,
and she's soon calmed to hiccuping and sniffling into her
leaf patterned mug, shoulders hunched, I slid over a slice
of chocolate fudge cake on the house. Thus you see
the importance of listening. But there's a caveat to the

(05:52):
point I make. While yes, we listen, I fear we
cannot always give them what they desire. Anissana requested numerously
that I break my own rules and grant Catherine's sanctuary
from emotional mistreatment at the hands of her husband and
king in one of the three rooms we keep for
weary travelers. I declined, of course, but do not think

(06:16):
me wholly bereft of compassion nor heart. A fondness for
the queen seems to have bloomed within me as well, unbidden,
though not entirely unwelcome. From Anissana's tales, If one looks
closely on the eve of Catherine's death under a bristling,
cold cloud heavy night in January fifteen thirty six, a

(06:37):
figure can be seen perched under her window, face shadowed
by green shawl. I whispered to her a gift knowledge
of Anne Boleyn's beheading to come, that she may greet
death with peace in her heart, a wry smirk on
her Lipsnumber two ordinaries are not allowed here. As you

(07:04):
may have surmised, every year we must renew the threshold
wards that keep non magicals at bay, well non magical humans.
My bitsy Augustus here is a perfectly ordinary cat, at
least he began as one over fifty years ago. I
consider this ground, beyond the primary dimensionals to be sacred, neutral,

(07:26):
a harborage for all magicals in need of respite and
a hot cuppa, an untarnished retreat where people can lounge
before latticed fireplaces whilst listening to bards, or seek quiet
in a solitary booth, or browse reading books primed with
leather bound titles I plucked from across time. Against the criteria,

(07:48):
they be both entertaining and carry minimal spoilage risk. The
last thing our customers need is a human stretting in
only to gawk at horns, or extra limbs or lavender skin.
These wards prevent our doors from appearing for ordinaries, though
I regret to say they were erected only once I'd
learned my lesson from two unfortunate events in the shop's

(08:11):
early days. Event number one, a drunken soldier from Byzantium
stumbled in on a particularly bustling evening plume, wilting to
one side, mud tracking on the cobblestone. He took one
gaze about with beady, greedy eyes, and in his inebriety,
fancied himself a centurion of old, promptly attempting to revive

(08:33):
the glory of a united, undiminished Rome by subjugating the
magical's present. Now, I consider myself an equanomous sort. But
I raged then hotly, hen like, for I recognized his sneer.
The expression is the same, whether worn by a vanquished,
hungry soldier or an egomaniacal capitalist, and saw how my

(08:57):
patrons shifted uncomfortably under his advance. I proceeded to do
something I rarely do I whipped out my twined blood
wood wand and turned him into a frog. It was
common spell work, hardly to my taste. My bones always
ache so after quotidian spells, but it had to be done.

(09:20):
This swed the initial seed of my idea for wards.
But event number two sealed the deal. Shortly after the
Ribeti Centurion circumstance. While I was still a dough eyed,
naive shopkeeper of the eighth, I optimistically thought to invite
a few select non magical humans. My first invite became

(09:41):
my last, extended to a man named Fujiwara no Tomoyuki
from the same century as Nara, the second son of
a minor noble. At first glance, he was perfectly unremarkable.
Yet on one sun baked day he visited where his
family lay foundations for a temple. Something within him clicked

(10:02):
when he saw the freshly churned earth, like a bee
to pollen, and in his inspired state, he made esthetic
changes to the plans. The resulting pagodas and gardens were
breath taking. So skilled was he in conjuring perfect asymmetry
in nurturing flora to adorn the temple grounds that I

(10:24):
could sense in him one of those potent, raw artistic
buds that would blossom into poetry and arts and gardens
galore down his bloodlines. When I found him, his reputation
for a brilliantly green eye hadn't yet stretched beyond his
immediate family, but I had no doubt of his potential
to be great. The hope was to garner his advice

(10:47):
for my decor. Vines webbed against woodstone walls and studded
with cascades of wisteria, lilies and hyacinths and orchids, blooming
into table centerpieces, rivulets set in the cobblestone, and curling
around boots to meet at ponds filled with koy and lotuses,
rock gardens underlying each fireplace, on and on and on

(11:10):
to reach the striking, verdant harmony I envisioned. I am
a green witch, yes, but even I must nod to
raw talent such as his. In return, I thought to
introduce domoyuki to an amiable woodland dryad called Ray, who
loved espresso and whose talent for trees song could enhance
his family's temple grounds, and to give him a taste

(11:32):
of chocolate. It did not go the way I planned
at all, this, this, this, he cried, eyes bulging in
red veined terror. What is this evil you entice me with?
And at first it wasn't to Ray, he referred it
was the chocolate. Apparently such a delicacy could only be

(11:53):
wrought by diabolic fingers. But when he did turn his
attention to her lips stained with brown, he pointed and
gaukeed and sputtered, as if the sweet dryad were a
wretched exhibit to be leered at from a safe distance
behind glass. He clawed at his chest and died. Thorns
sprouted from where Ray had backed into the wall, horrified,

(12:16):
and it took me a week to dispel the stench
of human urine and decay from the air. It was
how I discovered corpses decomposed more rapidly out here. Ah.
I never saw Ray again after that, though I did
search for her extensively, despatching countless feelers and ravens and owls.
To this very day, I carry a guilt in her

(12:37):
shape that eclipses my regret at the premature loss of
Tomoyuki's green potential. I thought, then, no more invitations, no
accidental visitors, no siree. I did, of course, manage to
decorate to my satisfaction, but it took at least a
quarter century for me to tweak and prod and nudge

(12:57):
these interiors into what you see now. Number three, We
must be vigilant to preserve the sanctity of the gilded timeline.
To this effect, there is another spell in place, as
potent as the threshold wards. But in order to appreciate
what this spell does, you must first understand there is

(13:20):
always risk when people from different times interact. Conversations may
unravel quick and devastating as viporot, and we must skillfully
divert attentions before this happens. I usually dispatch Augustus to
the contending parties whose purrs and insistence on head rubs
contain any wildfire heart. Our patrons have free reign to

(13:45):
rum about and enjoy one another's company, knowing full well
they may be consorting with someone from the future, but
most have the good sense to avoid awkward questions and
leave their occasionally inexorable loyalties for human made borders at
the door. We are all brethren in a way as
magic folk, but in the off chance two souls cross

(14:08):
paths at an unfortunate moment, or a conversation veers into
dangerous terrain. The parties are at once doused in a
lambent purple cloud visible only to my eyes, the Temporal
Peace Alert, so named by its inventor, my paternal great grandmama.
It is a perfectly valid descriptor. She huffed any time

(14:31):
I offered a more creative alternative. These days, I call
it purple Pinocchio, for like a growing twiggy nose, an
emergent purple cloud is a sure tell that something is awry.
My great Grandmamma was not a greenwitch like my maternal line,
but one of time curling descent, whose blood and mean

(14:51):
makes this entire establishment possible. But where she lacked an
imaginative nomenclature, she more than compensated for an innovative spell.
The spell works like so Each individual is considered a
thread on a tapestry that is neither a real tapestry
nor a tangible thing, but I call it such because

(15:11):
it is a striking metaphor. In the event any two
threads cross at a point where they should not, the
spell detects the risk of a knot. Purple Pinocchio works
only for witches with even a dollup of time curling
blood in their veins. But I am not without resourcefulness myself,
and have tweaked it that it may work on you.

(15:33):
Take this needle toned powder and rub it into your eyeballs,
while I share now the example of Malik and the
unparalleled Lilio Kolani of the Kingdom of Hawaii. Malik is
a poltergeist. When he was a flesh, he was a
descendant of Bevas and Rishis, alongside a few other species
have quite forgotten. A poltergeist with a pernicious gambling habit,

(15:57):
who I briefly band on two occasion when his encounters
devolved into blows over cards or coins, I urged him
to embrace the sage and scholar facet of his heritage,
and for a time he seemed reformed, wholly engrossed in
the target of his new study. Lilio Kalani. Malik upper
lip endowed with froth from his favored Viennese coffee, would

(16:21):
animatedly relay his observations of her tremendous social endeavors, her steadfastness,
her music compositions so melodious. Arbards have select pieces in
their rotation. His tales depicted a champion for women, brave
and bold and kind, and I rather surprisingly began looking
forward to his visits, such a stark contrast to the

(16:43):
wariness I felt when he visited before dice rattling in
his palms. I even dared to hope he had shed
the mantle of Poltergeist entirely and was simply now a
wayward spirit. I was wrong in my supposition, for on
one quiet afternoon, with a soft flull of flutes in

(17:04):
the air, I relaxed my alertness to check on the
koi in the northern pool, and so I did not
immediately notice the flare of purple around Malik and the
pair of pixies with whom he shared a tray of
cinnamon rolls. Malik hurled the tray into the fireplace, stunning
the bards into silence. The pixies, with easily bruised egos,

(17:26):
bristled and huffed and swore, causing a tangle of vines
to lurch from the walls and smack Malik across the face.
Heads turned. I rushed over, cursing at my being distracted
by how the Koi wove playfully through my fingers, the
feel of cool water against my skin, he calledeth lyars,
the pixies no bigger than my palm bird ferociously glaring darks.

(17:49):
How dairy, How dairy? How dairy? Malik, his translucent form,
fuming even brighter than the flames devouring the cinnamon rolls,
grimaced and and hissed. You are liars, nothing but tiny
flippity liars. How dare you suggest Lilio Colani will be dethroned?

(18:10):
But it is true, it is true. And ha, look
at you. You lost, you lost, You deserve nothing but loss.
I raised a palm as Malik opened his mouth and retorted.
And it may have been the threat of yet again
losing access to his favorite coffee, but he clamped his
lips and stormed out the doors, though not without inadvertently
inciting a trail of destruction in his wake. Toppled chairs,

(18:33):
jostled tables, beverages spilled onto frazzled customers, to whom I
offered towels, words of apologies, and free scones. Later, when
the ruckus had subsided, the bards taking up their flutes
once more, I sought explanation from the pixies. Now quieted
from their peals of laughter. It turns out Malik wasn't

(18:57):
furious at the thought of a beloved queen being overthrew. No,
he carried no attachments for her, not in the way
I seemed to have developed. He had placed a substantial
bet on the longevity of her reign. The knowledge he
would lose infuriated him. Now I strive to refrain from

(19:17):
judging my customers. Indeed, some have done far worse beyond
these walls. But the tableau of disgrundled customers, the queen's
stories fresh in my heart, and the vexing recollections of
Malik's past behavior all siphoned to a single decision. I
lay a permanent ban against him. As for Lilio coolany wretched,

(19:42):
conniving business men in the eighteen nineties with greed ridden
demeanors reminiscent of the amphibious centurion succeeded in a coup,
and when she sought to reclaim what was wrested from
her people, she was thrown captive into a bedroom suite.
I caught word of her weaving a quilt during her imprisonment,

(20:04):
a quilt with her life's tale in its sinews, not
unlike the tapestry for which we are all threads. I
always say humans can resolve their own sordid affairs. But
on one Velvety eighteen ninety five evening, if those guarding
her paid close heed, they'd spot a green blur flitting
around corners. Curse if I didn't slip a spool of

(20:26):
thread and a cut of fire hued fabric under her door. Now.
But hum ah, No, people cannot meet their future and
past selves. Of course they cannot. I should think I've
made that obvious, But I'll be the first to admit
my blathering has a soul of its own. I shall

(20:48):
make it clear now there are no walking paradoxes or
space time implosions, or quantum this is and that's, or
whatever silly terms post nineteenth ordin concoct San's accurate knowledge
of what they speak. Our doors, no matter where they appear.
For a patron, a pit shadowed by some laird's castle,

(21:10):
a hillock in queen and Jinga's expansive domain, an ali
in Budapest, New York City, Moscow, simply unclosed to a
time in our shop when said patron is not present,
and before you ask, no people cannot travel to another
time the way I can well, unless they are time
curlers themselves. The exit only ever leads to their own.

(21:35):
I must add a caveat These doors cannot open to
a time before the shop was established, just as I
cannot travel to a time before I was born. Nor
can we follow in the human's wake when they eventually
take to the stars, leaving behind a dastardly withering earth.
This shop is earth bound. You know. It was a

(21:59):
monument disappointment for me to learn the limitations of time curling.
It was on the day of my initiation, and I,
but a wee girl in the early eighth clad in
her newly earned green shawl, wailed piteously in the copse.
I wailed because I've just been informed my intended first

(22:19):
act was impossible to grow startlingly vibrant flowers for the
ancient queens of Egypt, the likes of Hatshepsut, Nefertiti, Mahreniath,
or those lost to history written by men. Vines rose
gently from the earth at the twitch of my mother's finger,
growing to engulf me in a hug. My great Grandmamma

(22:42):
tugged her purple shawl about her shoulders with a sniff,
and barked to her, well, what did she expect? Time
certainly doesn't work that way, And to me, now, dry up, child,
You're a proper witch. Now act like it. While I
did sober then, I've spent a great many years ever
since lamenting the lack of foresight in my ancestors. If

(23:04):
only they'd opened a coffee shop when ancient civilizations efflorished
on earth, that I could visit those regal queens said
to have consorted with witches of all persuasions, from black
to red to greened silver. They say those queens petitioned
the gods to anoint the dearest of their witchy friends,

(23:25):
giving rise to the first time curlers. Perhaps then it
would have been my ancestors and not me, who invented
door magics, allowing others with time curling blood to travel
even before their own time. Indeed, I've guided a number
of young purples born in later centuries to venture back
to the eighth because of my humble shop. But it

(23:49):
seems I'm the first of my blood to carry an
ardent desire not only to visit times before, but for hospitality,
encouraged by a rather insation appetite for cold brew. Ah, Well,
what is past is past? And I fear I have
lost my direction of thought? Where was i? Ah? Yes,

(24:14):
number four, though I suppose I should say number five.
Number five the last for now, but certainly not the least.
It just may be my favorite of them all. Each
patron has a unique cup, a cup grown by my
hand from bits of wood and grass, and you must

(24:35):
memorize the pairings. The elf Rose takes herbal teas in
this acacia cup and saucer inlaid with petals after her name.
That bamboo dabra with gold leaf filigree is for a
goblin named Menatex, with a taste for South Indian filter coffee.
The canary wood cauldron is for a harpy named Liefire,

(24:56):
whose drink of choice is cardamom moth lattes. I'm particularly
proud of the herringbone pattern on that one. Each design
is intentional, the shapes, the patterns, the feel, down to
the very detailing in the grain, as uniquely a patron's
as a witch's wands are to her. New visitors are

(25:16):
given one of those plain porcelain mugs on the third shelf,
but by the time they complete their first drink, I'd
have grown one based on my observations of them, their pulses, inclinations,
and gestures. It may seem a silly, unnecessary thing on
the surface, a cup for each patron. But tell me this,
who among us wouldn't delight in a custom gift, knowing

(25:40):
it is the only one of its kind in all
the universes? And think of how it must feel to
retire to a place such as this after a hard
day's work cultivating or ruining, in merrymaking or shenaniganry, and
sip from a cup that is wholly yours. Our patrons
brandish their cups proudly. Many an ice has broken over

(26:04):
their admiring each other's designs. It adds to the charm,
they say, And on hearing them, I feel the very
thrill that ignites my core whenever I pour a luscious brew,
or pull crisp patrees from the oven, or conjure a
vertuous feast for the ice. But though they are pretty,
the matter is not solely one of aesthetics. The green

(26:27):
magics woven to compliment one's personality also compliment their physiology,
briefly enhancing immunity in a way more inherent and powerful
than any of my herbs combined. Thus germs are repelled,
slicked elsewhere as though by some Horo logic shield and

(26:47):
our visitors cannot carry bugs across time. For can you
imagine the havoc that may reek? How devastating it would
have been if Rani ve lu Nachia's painstakingly amassed army
perished by say, the Black Death before her momentous combat
against the East India Company. How colossal a loss to

(27:07):
art had Vincent van gohe passed before fathoming the swirls
of a starry night by one of those ancient viruses
released in the twenty first from softening ice caps. How
horrific to think of an untimely reaping among the stalwart
Agaugie due to carelessness on my part. No, there is

(27:27):
no changing history within these walls. Events unfold the way
they are meant to, no matter how aberrant nor wondrous,
Each individual, with their role and time, each important, uniquely,
sublimely necessarily important. Though my rambles may betray personal partialities,

(27:49):
let me make it clear, taken alone, a grand Queen's
thread is indistinguishable from that of a washerwoman's, regardless of
species or inc nation, each an important strand, without which
the tapestry unifying us all would hang incomplete. How reckless

(28:09):
it would be for me to induce a not a
loose stitch and untimely contortion a truncated potential. Ah, but
I see the question of tomoyuki in your eyes, the
coronary garden commotion, as I call it, And yes, yes,
that is the very type of grotesque, regrettable occurrence I
aspire to avoid. When my time curling ancestors were blessed

(28:32):
by gods at the behest of queens I'll never get
to meet, they swore never to impart godlike interference on
the gilded timeline. Though my shawl is green and not purple,
I honor the oaths borne by my blood. Despite my
imperfections and fumbles along the way, I do not doubt

(28:53):
my place in the boundless tapestry. This role that is
undividedly mine. To soften worry hings across time with exquisite
beverages and pastries, to listen to patrons, protect them from
ordinary humans, To stand vigilant and uphold ancient odes. This
is how we do at the witch's cold brew, and

(29:17):
now our threads entangled. This role is yours too. I
thought it about time I hired help follow the systems
I've lain like clockwork, and I do intend the pun
The feeding schedules are pinned to the broom cupboard. If
you delay by even a half second, Augustus yowls and
prowls the Koi whirlpool and the frogs Yes, descendants of

(29:40):
that pestilent centurion, hop phrenetically into the cups. Slow blink
twice for purple Pinocchio to take full effect. Clear the
plates from the second southeastern booth, and do nudge Augustus
off that poor centaur's back. I think I shall retreat
for a long overdue nap.

Speaker 1 (30:06):
That was so you want to run a temporal coffee shop?
By RP. Sand Our Peace sand is a theoretical physicist
turned science communicator and educator and writer of speculative fiction.
Her words have appeared in Clark's World and Asimov's Science Fiction,
among other places, are forthcoming in light Speed, and have

(30:28):
made the Locus Recommended reading List. Kats coffee, cosplay, and
colorful socks are a few of her favorite things. Find
her at rpsand dot com. What a wonderful story. I
hope you enjoy it as much as I do. I

(30:49):
knew I had to have it when I read it
in the submissions queue, because what a wonderful cozy coffee shop. Au.
AU stands for Alternate Universe. For anyone who and already
know that you've read less fan fiction than I have, congratulations. However,
I thought that this really embodied that cozy comfort that

(31:11):
is one of the driving factors behind the whole idea
of Worlds of Possibility, which exists just to bring stories
and poems and things into the world that soothe, inspire, comfort,
and delight, and I felt like this did all of
those for me, which is great because right now it's

(31:31):
cold out where I live, it's very cold, and also
the global climate in general across many axes is it's
a lot to take at the moment, so it's nice
to have some things that are just kind of cozy
and comforting. I hope that wherever you are, whether it's
hot or it's cold, you have the warm or cool,

(31:54):
comforting beverage of your choice in a cup that is
just perfect for you. I personally will continue to drink
enormous amounts of hot herbal tea out of my giant
cat mug, which has a cat face on the front
and little paws on the bottom and a tail in
the back that is a tandle. This mug is almost
as big as my head, and if you've ever seen

(32:15):
me upear online, you've probably seen me drink out of it.
Whenever that happens, people always ask what the deal with
this mug is, and I have to show it off,
and I would say that's definitely my personal signature mug.
I find it delightful, and I also found delightful that
in this story the proprietor of this coffee shop takes

(32:37):
pride in making special cups for every single patron and
thinking about their personalities. I love that, and I wish
that all of you have something perfectly suited to you
that when you pick it up, it feels like yours
and it feels like home. If you like all of

(32:59):
Worlds possibility, and you've read any stories that you particularly
like or any poems that you particularly like in twenty
twenty four, which includes this one. Because this is from
twenty twenty four, those are all eligible for any of
the twenty twenty four awards. So if you're voting for
things like the Hugos or whatever, and you read a
story or a poem, and the Hugos even have a

(33:21):
poetry category this time, so you know, if you liked
any of the poems and things that we published in
twenty twenty four, keep that in mind. You are totally
free to vote for those for anything, and you are
also welcome to vote for the magazine as a whole.
The magazine itself will be ending this year with the

(33:42):
June issue. I decided I was ready to wrap up
the magazine portion of Worlds of Possibility and thought that
three years of bi monthly issues was a nice round number,
a good set, So I'm going to be ending the
magazine in June. I'm leaving the door open to do
future Worlds of Possibility projects, because the whole point of

(34:03):
World's of Possibility is to bring myself and others some hope,
some joy, some comfort. So I think at any time
I may pick it up and do more anthologies, but
I'm not going to do a bi monthly magazine anymore.
If you are a subscriber, you will continue to get
the magazine until the June issue. And at that point,

(34:24):
I am not exactly sure how I'm going to handle this,
but hopefully I'll find a way to turn off the
subscription things or we'll figure something out. If you decide
to unsubscribe at anytime because you're not wanting to do that,
that's also totally fine. You're welcome to do that at
any point obviously. All Right, So I think that's going

(34:46):
to do it for today. Thank you for listening, and
until next time.