when we were wee ones, my mother read stories to my younger brother and me every night. each experience infused my being with an indescribable delight. it’s no surprise that i read voraciously throughout my youth and often sought to emulate the many scribblers whose tales of what never was so moved me. i’m pretty sure that the only reason i’ve ever written anything down is to give myself the chance to read the words aloud. during my twenties, i regularly made the rounds of the lit friendly open mics in the lower east side, reciting my freshly-minted prose to the assembled. that i should bother about putting these words into print never really happened. i rarely submitted anything to anyone — not even when asked to do so. to publish comes from the latin publicare, “to bring to the public.” my weird thoughts allowed me to feel as grandiose as the roman orator cicero or that greek guy, socrates (who never wrote) or — better yet — that old timey legendary poet guy orpheus who kept singing for the birds and bees and trees and things even after the initiates of the sylvan goddess chopped his head off and chucked it in the river. what did i want for paper bindings of mine own? i got friends who’ll attest to the zeal with which i read aloud to them at random. more friends and family who’ve laid close to me abed while i invoke the words i spy one after a next between the covers of some book whilst they fall to sleep under the covers. and it’s not just my own stuff that sparks me to hold forth some text out loud, as this show will demonstrate on a regular basis. short stories and fables from around the world that are available in print will be the only topic here. i won’t offer commentary or biographies on-air. just the fictions read for the listener as best as i can read them. so, goodnight, norman.