In Ink #1

Welcome to the first issue of ‘In Ink’, a supplement to Podern Times. Here we will be taking a look at some of the posts that have been published by podcasters, or about podcasting in general.

In Ink

Issue 1

 

Welcome to the first issue of ‘In Ink’, a supplement to Podern Times. Here we will be taking a look at some of the posts that have been published by podcasters, or about podcasting in general.

inhale1080-718

‘Inhale’ is the beautiful tale of reluctant superhero Tammy Tracer, a ten part stand alone audio drama series from writer and creator Rick Coste. (Behemoth, Pixie, Bryar Lane to name a few.)

Just over a year later, we now have the pleasure of an ongoing fictional journal from Tammy. I would suggest listening to the audio drama podcast first however, we wouldn’t want you to trip over any spoilers now would we. If you’ve already had the pleasure of listening to it then please feel free to breathe in this inspiring new creation.

I had the pleasure of catching up with Rick and asked him about this new direction.

It actually stems from the need to continue writing.  Over the last few months I’ve focused my attention on finishing some long held book ideas I’ve had.  A couple are now in the hands of my agent and, while they are being reviewed and shopped around, I felt it was a good time to try something new.”

I really wanted to continue Tammy Tracer’s story but I also wanted to do so outside of the audio drama medium.”

 

If that wasn’t amazing enough, Rick has also released another fictional journal, this time for a completely new character, Kira. ‘Kira’s Journey’ follows the thoughts of an AI (Accidental Intelligence as Rick puts it) from the moment of consciousness, through her escape, and into the exploration of the larger world. Could we be looking at the inception of a new audio drama?

I just want to see where her story takes her as she explores what it means to ‘not’ be human.  There’s quite a few directions I could go with it but my main desire is for her to be able to do so in her own way.”

You can find all of Rick’s wonderful tales over at modernaudiodrama.com


 

Elsewhere on Planet Pod

A review of Sarah Werner’s sci-fi epic ‘Girl In Space’ from The Fantasy Inn.

The latest Bello articles tell us to take a break from listening to podcasts, and then recommend ten shows to listen to.

 


Do you have a companion blog for your podcast? Do you write about podcasting? Would you like to reach new readers through this publication? Just email us a link to your latest blog post and we’ll share it here.

In A Word… War

In A Word

They say ‘a picture is worth a thousand words,’ so I’ve decided to challenge a few of my friends to see if they can paint the reader a picture in just one thousand words. The subject of this picture? A single word. An emotionally charged word full of subjectivity, giving plenty of scope for my guests to get their creative writing on. After all, isn’t that our job as writers? To pull the audience into a scene, and connect to them emotionally, to let them share in the beauty of our world?

Last time we read the words of Jamie Killen, writer and producer of Spines, and Mirrors podcasts. This time around we have the prolific writer Paul Sating, who’s latest drama, Who Killed Julie? we reviewed last week.

Paul began creating audio drama podcasts in 2015 with Atheist Apocalypse, a satirical comedy set after the rapture over four seasons. While writing that he has penned Diary of a Madman, two seasons of Subject: Found, the aforementioned Who Killed Julie?, a patron only podcast called You, and a writers podcast by the name of Horrible Writing. So I can only say thank you for squeezing in a thousand words for me.

The Word I have chosen for Paul is…


War

/wɔː/

noun

a state of armed conflict between different countries or different groups within a country.

“Japan declared war on Germany”


War is air. War is life.

The metallic cloud of spent rounds.

The thudding in your heart when the world explodes.

The ripping of the air as the Klaxon screeches and the C-RAM tears apart the invasive enemy.

The overwhelming frustration of boredom and the numbing of the mind. Essence flows from your soul as a river through a dry land.

War is humans at their most animalistic. War is us.

This… is war.

Life changes in a flash. One minute, your mind is fixated on all of those moments you’re missing. Your middle school child starring in the school play, helping with homework assignments you don’t understand, a spouse having a bad day at work and just needing a sympathetic ear. Christmas morning waking alone, on a cot that no one over nineteen should sleep on; no tree under which are the carefully-placed expressions of love. Sleeping. Bored. Dreaming of home one moment… the next, you’re flopping out of your cot in the middle of the black night, scurrying like a cockroach for cover under six inches of used and abused cloth, polyester, and foam that provides restless sleep each night. Your heart threatens to thump its way out of your throat.

There is no sense.

No balance.

The world is an enigma.

Your friends are subversive, playing politics in the middle of extensive periods of boredom. Your enemies, the people you’ve sworn to kill if need be; humans, with wives, mothers, and children who depend on them to survive.

You realize they’re a lot like you.

In war, everyone believes they’re on the right side.

In war, you cling to the things that have meaning. Angels in heaven or demons walking the earth. There are atheists in foxholes. A lot of them. War helps you see that.

Beliefs.

Diversity.

The silliness in believing in anything that isn’t human motivation. You watch as God allows his throng of believers to die painful deaths at the end of an enemy gun. God turns his nose as limbs and lives are lost. No purpose is served beyond the single concern of the powerful; the ultimate god of mankind.

No, in war, there is only one god. And he is green.

Soldiers, Airmen, Marines, Sailors; bleed red so the rich are swathed in the perpetual flow of riches. Exuberant deals. Money moves from one government to the power brokers of another. Favors curried in the hallways of the Pentagon, a world where small people have no access, even though they give their sons and daughters to the cause.

Dust in every crevice.

Minutes which feel like hours.

Minutia for the sake of minutia.

War

Source: FreeImages

Blind eyes turned away from crimes committed to preserve the state.

Thinking, feeling… loving humans, convinced to kill one another for the sake of a state that does not care for them or their kind.

This… this is the reality of war.

The ignorant, the blind, those unwilling and incapable of seeing its realities stroke the canvas, painting the scene which they want to portray. They are no less guilty than the mongers who lust for more: power, money, control.

The compliant tote patriotism like a badge to be earned. They cannot see it is nothing more than a mechanism to manipulation, that the species is the greater good. They fear the other. The unknown. The different.

The liberal expounds and pontificates, as if they’re experts on a subject for which they’ve never attended. They assert knowledge; an asset they lack. They’re just as ignorant as patriotism’s lemmings, and in the same state of denial.

The only sane are those who retain the ability to independently think while dressed in the standard uniform of warriors. They see the abuses: of the powerful, the governments, their agents. They see the harm, the unnecessary, and the waste. They know the courage and sacrifice required to execute and influence, sometimes for and against the same entity.

Simultaneously.

The heart aches, longs for things it cannot have, unfulfilled by the dishonest proclamations of those who claim to hold the truth.

Duty.

Patriotism.

Honor.

These are preached from behind the safety of international borders and oceans. The detached eye observes the price paid by the powerless, the voiceless; paid by those who have bought the lie or serve in complicity because they aren’t of the privileged.

Boxes, draped in the three colors that used to stand for something, drift past, born by friends, associates, brothers and sisters-in-arms. Eyes wet; eyes vacant; eyes seething with wrathful vengeance examine the box. Inside is a sister. A brother. A son. A daughter. A husband. A wife. A mom. A dad.

Lost.

Promise of life needlessly and heedlessly spent.

The desert dust carries the spirit of what remains of hope. Here, in war, we exist. Nothing more. There is no happiness in accomplishments, no joy in the good news from home, no sense of importance. Here there is what there has always been for the warrior who thinks: a longing to return… home. To touch the hand of the grandmother. To hug the crying child. To feel the softness of a kiss shared by intimate partners.

To the thinking warrior, war lost its honor when money became its justification.

In the thinking warrior, there is no greater opponent of war.

War nor its warriors are monolithic.

Its warriors must be actors.

The enemy is the friend; the friend, the enemy.

Confusion is king and clarity, a casualty.

The one who says they understand war… the liar.

The one who demands to abolish war… the denier.

Why deny that which we are? Why strive for the unachievable?

To do so is to delay measures of resolution and to hold true discourse amongst adversaries. It is to fail to invest in dialogue in that which prevents us from embracing our most basic instinct.

We could.

We won’t.

We should.

We haven’t.

War is air.

War is life.


Who Killed Julie?

Who Killed Julie? released its first two episodes over the weekend, (September 23rd). This and all of Paul’s other shows can be found over on his website, or on your podcatcher of choice.

My review of this story can be found here.

Would you like to take part and promote your work here? All you have to do is email me!


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In A Word… Serenity

They say ‘a picture is worth a thousand words,’ so I’ve decided to challenge a few of my friends to see if they can paint the reader a picture in just one thousand words.

In A Word

They say ‘a picture is worth a thousand words,’ so I’ve decided to challenge a few of my friends to see if they can paint the reader a picture in just one thousand words. The subject of this picture? A single word. An emotionally charged word full of subjectivity, giving plenty of scope for my guests to get their creative writing on. After all, isn’t that our job as writers? To pull the audience into a scene, and connect to them emotionally, to let them share in the beauty of our world?

Today’s guest is the wonderfully talented Jamie Killen, creator of audio drama podcast ‘Spines’, and brand new drama ‘Mirrors’, which releases tomorrow (September 12th). Jamie is also an author of speculative fiction. Her latest, ‘The Wandering Land’, is a beautifully told tale of five peoples adventure in a mysterious place of magic, and is currently a free read on Kindle Unlimited.

The word I have chosen for today is…


Serenity

/sɪˈrɛnɪti/

noun.

the state of being calm, peaceful, and untroubled.

“an oasis of serenity amidst the bustling city”


 

Serenity: you sit next to a bubbling stream, breathing in the clean smells of nature. Your thoughts are quiet and still, your worries far away. You stop worrying about the future, and you stop agonizing about the past. You close your eyes and feel the sun on your face, and for that one moment you are at peace.

Then you open your eyes, and you meet the gaze of the creature stalking you through the shadows, and that serenity is gone.

There’s a reason the oasis is the primary metaphor for serenity. What’s so special about an oasis? It’s just a pond and some palm trees, after all. There are more beautiful places than that all over the world.

No, it’s not what’s in the oasis itself. It’s what’s around the oasis that makes it special. Surrounded by parched, deadly desert, a lake and a few scrubby trees become the promised land. Serenity is special because it is surrounded by danger and trauma. And, just as you must leave the oasis and continue on your journey across the desert, you cannot remain in a state of serenity for long.

An oasis of unlimited size isn’t an oasis anymore. It’s a swamp.

Serenity’s beauty lies in its brevity. No one can live in a permanent state of serenity. Some might try, or claim to have achieved something like a state of perfect contentment. But to be truly serene, one must be free of fear and rage and worry. To be truly serene, one must be ill-equipped to survive for very long.

The serene person walking along a desert trail does not fear snakes, and so does not watch for them.

The serene person watching evil play out on the streets feels no rage, and so takes no action until the secret police show up at their door.

The serene person raising children does not worry about their future, and so does nothing to protect it.

Anger and terror keep us alive. Serenity doesn’t.

Serenity is temporary because it has to be, because a person cannot indefinitely exist unmoored from their past and future, from the dangers and love and everything else intruding on us.

This is what I think of when I think of serenity in my own life: It’s evening, and I’m standing in a quiet spot near the Thames. I’m listening to a street musician singing a Nina Simone song. It’s calm and beautiful and for the duration of that song I let myself be serene.

Why can’t I be like this forever?

Because the past and the future and the fucked-up present won’t allow it. For a brief moment I can feel serene, but that moment is bracketed by a past in which the city I stand on is soaked with blood and bombed from above. It’s made possible by the music of Nina Simone, a woman who fought to survive in Jim Crow America. I don’t know it yet, but this moment is already hurtling toward a darkness that will come years into my future, when my country begins its descent into authoritarian madness.

Oasis

Source: Freeimages.com

It’s not all the larger forces, either. I make a conscious decision to let the serenity shrivel and die, because once this song is over I have to walk back to my hotel by myself, and a woman walking alone at night does not have the luxury of serenity. Serenity is incompatible with the need to watch the shadows for men who hate women.

This isn’t to say that serenity is without merit. Serenity is an emotional vacation. It’s the mind unplugging. Serenity is the mind in a moment of stillness, when we are so accustomed to the mind in constant motion. A short period of serenity allows for reflection. It calms and consoles.

And when that anger and sadness and fear return, they are more focused. They are no longer a directionless hum. They have a purpose and a target. They are oriented around tasks to complete, problems that must be solved. Serenity has cleansed the palate, and you can move forward with clarity.

But still we seek the serenity. We meditate, a little longer each time. We take vacations. We seek to prolong the periods in which we can honestly describe ourselves as serene. Sometimes it can last for a while, but at some point, inevitably, you must leave the oasis.

But wait, you say, what about the serenity of Gandhi and Buddhist monks or Malala Yousafzai? Or our serene great leaders in fiction, Dumbledore and Yoda and Aslan? They seem so content, so tranquil. Haven’t they achieved a state of serenity?

No. They’re calm. They’re focused. They have purpose. That’s not serenity. That’s just managing the terror, not leaving it behind. They see the creatures in the dark. They see the blood and chaos. They know what’s out there.

Serenity can never last. It shouldn’t last. Serenity is special precisely because it is rare, and because it should be rare. Deep down, as much as we all long for serenity, as much as we cling to it when it comes, we all know this. A short period of serenity is beautiful. Indefinite serenity is an opium den. Permanent serenity is the grave.

Serenity is an island paradise surrounded by shark-infested waters.

Serenity is a cozy cottage with a wolf breathing against the door.

Serenity is an oasis in the midst of salt flats and blinding heat.

Serenity can never be more than this: a breath, a moment, a blink. The briefest respite from the things chasing you through the dark.

So take those moments. Take the flashes of serenity that you are lucky enough to receive. Sit by the stream, and close your eyes, and feel the sun on your face, and bask in your little moment of serenity. Get lost in that song for the four or five minutes that it lasts.

Then stand up, and face the shadows, and let the serenity slip away. The monsters are coming.


Mirrors Podcast

Don’t forget, Mirrors launches episode one tomorrow! You can check out the trailer now, or go and listen to all three seasons of the amazing Spines right now.

Don’t forget, most of Jamie’s work is offered to everyone for free, so please be sure to swing by her Patreon page and offer up a little support.

If you have a podcast, book, or other passion project you would like to promote here, then please contact me via email or even DM me over on Twitter.


Check out the next post in this series, ‘In A Word… War’ by Paul Sating, is a wonderfully moving poem.