March 20, 2019

Casey Stanberry, Architectural Illustrator

Casey Stanberry, Architectural Illustrator

We’re pleased to introduce some new and fascinating art from Boston’s Casey Stanberry. Casey was trained as an architect and furthered his education at an art school in Spain. There, he participated in his first art shows and allowed the dense, historic architectural fabric to inspire his work. Originally from South Carolina, he has always had a passion for historic architecture and its relationship with contemporary daily life. His work reflects the intersection of the built environment and fine art in sweeping perspectives captured in painted and penned architectural diagrams.  Artist’s Statement “These pieces are drawn in elevation, plan, section and aerial to best expose certain structural and aesthetic qualities. Paint is sometimes layered over drawings followed by pen, which gives pieces a sense of being in architectural progress. There is an analytical approach to…

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March 1, 2019

The Weekend Podcast: “Anna Schutz” by Dean Peterson

The Weekend Podcast: “Anna Schutz” by Dean Peterson

We have a terrific new audio arts program for you tonight. It’s the story of an enigmatic young German woman named Anna Schutz and an American GI named Oli, who has a really bad case of depression. Or, in the author’s words: “A white-clad phantom seen running through the woods in Germany . . . a warren of abandoned tunnels under an American base . . . a forgotten clinic once used by the Nazis . . . one soldier’s obsession to solve a fifty-year old murder before his suicidal plans go any further. Listen to the madness unfold in Anna Schutz. “It’s like Jarhead meets The Shining.” We are providing the first six chapters to whet your appetite for this strange, enchanting ghost story, narrated with great empathy by the author. And speaking of the author, please be…

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February 19, 2019

Mark Greenside’s New Rabelaisian Novel

Mark Greenside’s New Rabelaisian Novel

The Night at the End of the Tunnel, or Isaiah Can You See? “It was the best of the worst of times, the worst of the best of times, the beginning of the end of the beginning.” That’s how this story begins. It’s late 70s, early 80s, New York City, and nothing works. No place is safe. Porn is everywhere. The streets are filthy, and the subways are worse. Trust is committing suicide–love is abused, and institutions and individuals are corrupt, corrupted, or corruptible. The City and country are disintegrating. Enter two of the unlikeliest characters you’ve ever met–think Charlie Brown meets Mr. Natural, or Alfred E. Neuman in The Heart of Darkness. All these guys want to do is survive, and they do–but in a way neither they nor you can imagine. What follows is…

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February 3, 2019

“Ghost Train” A Short Story by Stephen Brayton

“Ghost Train” A Short Story by Stephen Brayton

After the seven-hour drive from Connecticut, Rick and Bill were following Joe Spence’s directions to his camp on Chebuncook Pond: Nutting Road for five miles, then right onto a dirt road marked by a row of mailboxes beneath a stand of birches. Bumping along with the boat behind, they crossed the abandoned railroad line that Joe had noted. Even though he knew the railroad map of northern Maine, Rick had searched this one anyway, a Maine Central branch abandoned over a decade ago. They’d come across it at different locations on past trips. Here, its right-of-way through the woods remained clearly evident, no doubt from snowmobile and ATV use. In another half-mile, the waters of Chebuncook Pond appeared through the trees. They passed two camps and pulled in at the third. Joe’s camp looked like…

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January 27, 2019

“Night Embers” A Short Story by Tanya W. Newman

“Night Embers” A Short Story by Tanya W. Newman

The rains had set in two days ago and hadn’t stopped yet. Grace kept her eyes on the gleaming puddles before her on the sidewalk as she jogged while spiky raindrops hit her face and every car that passed sent rainwater splashing, soaking her leggings. She cut right so she could run down to the park, but running downhill became too much for the knees that once carried her with ease and now buckled and gave out underneath her. She crashed to the ground, her hands hitting the pavement first. She didn’t get up right away. She lay there, letting the rain fall over her in her defeat. Her hands were bleeding. The fiery singes in them told her that before she lifted them to see the scrapes and cuts for herself. They’d have to…

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