Art Ink

Hey there! Thanks for joining me for what is truly a mixed bag of magick that I've got lined up for you right now. Today I'm so grateful to be introducing our first poetry-inspired show. That's right, the story I'm going to share with you today, which is family-friendly, I might add, was inspired by six ocean-themed haikus written by my artsy friend Ania Archer...     [If your podcast app isn't showing the featured art for this episode above visit https://rebekahnemethy.com/artink28 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist and Haiku Poet: Ania Archer Title of Art: There is no planet B Ania's Instagram: @ania_archer Sunshine Inspired Fauna Challenge on Instagram: @sunshine_inspired_fauna   Find out more about whale and porpoise conservation at us.whales.org   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs       Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Hey there! Thanks for joining me for what is truly a mixed bag of magick that I've got lined up for you right now. Today I'm so grateful to be introducing our first poetry-inspired show. That's right, the story I'm going to share with you today, which is family-friendly, I might add, was inspired by six ocean-themed haikus written by my artsy friend Ania Archer.   She's an animal lover, an advocate for conservation, and the creator of the Sunshine Inspired Fauna Challenge on Instagram, which brings awareness to endangered species of animals by collaborating with artists. If you're interested in participating, you can find out more @sunshine_inspired_fauna.   Not only is Ania a poet and a change-maker, but she's also the artist behind today's cover art, which completes the magick trifecta I was eluding to just a minute ago.   So let's dive in to look at that before we get this story started!     [Art Description:]   An illustration of Mother Earth, centered on the Atlantic Ocean, is adorned with some of the largest and smallest of her creations. We can see much of North and South America to the left and most of Africa to the right.   The northeastern region of the blue and green globe is covered by a bouquet of flowers; an orange tea rose, a pink peony, and a yellow poppy. A large green monstera leaf, intricately carved by natural design, rests behind them. Seemingly swimming across the bottom quarter of the planet is a larger than life humpback whale, curving around the Earth like a crescent moon.   Across the center of the digital design are the words, in white, “There is no planet B.”   Ania has always held a special place in her heart for the creatures inhabiting our oceans. That's why it's no surprise that when she shared her book of haikus with me they were filled with glimpses of the sea and its magnificent creatures.   As I read each poem a story started to grow, and that's how Ahjah, the young blue whale swam into this stream of consciousness and now into your ears. I give you:   A Whale's Tale - Inspired Ania Archer's Haiku Poems   [Story:]     Part 1   #4 Ocean breeze around touches clouds in the blue sky mirrored in the waves   #21 Diving into deep blue whale dreams of clean waters filled with abundance     “Why did Gramma have to go?”   “Human season is a bit tough for her, Ahjee, your grandmother isn't exactly fond of the creatures.” Balou paused to open his mouth as they swam through a particularly dense cloud of plankton.   “What's she got against humans?” Ahjah was genuinely perplexed. Human season was her favorite time of year. She was especially fond of the chubby-cheeked small ones, and she usually only saw those when they migrated closer to the equator where the days were longer and warmer. Ahjah liked to swim with the humans. They were kind, docile animals, and the small ones were endlessly entertaining. Once, she even touched one, and when she looked into its eyes she saw a depth in them that was hard to describe.   “Well, she had quite the scare when she was just a calf, got herself stuck in human net, she did… but luckily she managed to break free or else neither of us would be here swimming as we are.”   “A net? What's that papa?”   “Ah, that's right, little one…” Balou said, and Ahjah could sense the proudness within the vibrations he was sending her way. “I'm glad you've never had a need to know.”   They swam for a bit longer in silence until Ahjah could no longer contain her curiosity. “So what is it?”   “Oh, well… it's a bit scary, Ahjee… are you sure you want to know?”   Ahjah tipped herself upwards and then quickly back down in a full body nod.   “When your grandmother was your age the sea was riddled with far more dangers then there are now. The nets were used to drag fish from the sea, and those who got caught, well… they were rarely ever seen again.”   “And the humans did that?”   “I'm afraid so.”   Ahjah couldn't eat after that, she felt sick thinking about those poor fish, and her poor Gramma; no wonder she'd swum out of there like an octopus out of an ink cloud at the first sign of humans.   They swam upwards, breeching the surface for a big breath of air. Once they dipped back beneath the waves, Balou finally broke the silence. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I met Tuttle?”   Ahjah looked at her father expectantly and he went on. “It wasn't just the nets we had to avoid back then, there were also the island traps…”     Part 2   #25 Plastic filled ocean floating in the deep waters tricks the living critters   #37 Deeply in love mother whale swims with her calf Ocean is her world     Balou swam ahead of his mother as far as she would allow. He knew he'd heard… something… but the static was loud today. The extra humans on the surface always made the white noise get louder, but the floating mass of human debris that stretched endlessly above added to the noise in a big way. A rustling, clacking, clattering cacophony that increased steadily the further beneath the island they swam.   “That's enough Balou, we must go back now.”   “But I know I heard something… just let me go a little further.”   “I don't know how you can hear anything beneath all this racket. I haven't heard a thing.”   Balou had slowed considerably, looking out into the dark waters ahead for any sign of movement. The dense island above blocked out most of the sunlight though, so it was difficult to see much of anything. He wanted to go on, but he knew his mother's limits.   “Help!”   “You heard it that time, didn't you?” Balou asked as he scanned the hulking shadow above. “It's coming from up there.” He said, already moving to swim upwards.   “Don't you dare go up there, Balou. You'll be trapped!”   “But someone up there needs help mother!” And he shot toward the surface.   “Balou, no!” Her fear froze her for just a split second before motherly instinct took over and she followed quickly after her son.   At almost that same moment, a deep rumble added to the deafening drone that was always more apparent the closer they got to the surface.   Balou's mother felt a wave of panic as she saw what it was, and despite knowing that Balou was already too far ahead to pick up on her vibrations she still yelled out a warning with as much force as she could muster. “Boat!!!”   ***   Ahjah gasped, eyes wide.   “Don't worry, Ahjee,” Balou said when he saw the fear in his daughter's eyes, “you know Tuttle's just fine.”   Ahjah relaxed, letting her breath back out in a grateful sigh at the reminder. “Was there a human in the boat? Was it a bad one?”   “Yes there was, and I'll admit, I thought that sea turtle was done for when I saw that man in the boat reaching for him. Your grandmother had always warned me about the creatures, my whole life she did.”   “So what happened? Was that why Tuttle had been yelling for help?”   “No, no… well perhaps maybe he was yelling a bit more frantically as the human approached…” Balou let out a chuckle before he continued. “But he was originally yelling because the island had grabbed ahold of his flipper when he'd gone up for a breath of air and he was stuck. But that human, you know what he did?”   Ahjah swam in closer to her father as she looked at him expectantly.   “He used some kind of tool to free Tuttle's flipper, and he swam out of there faster than I've ever seen any sea turtle move before, so fast in fact that he crashed right into my chin in his attempt to escape. He nearly knocked himself out!” Balou chuckled some more. “Tuttle and I have been friends ever since.”   “But if Gramma was with you when that happened, then why is she still afraid of humans?”   “That experience, my dear, is the only reason she doesn't insist I completely forbid you from swimming anywhere near the creatures… but she'd still rather keep her own distance I suppose. It's a bit sad, but sometimes old stories die hard.” Balou sighed.   “Ah but you haven't even heard what else happened that day…” He paused for suspense. “More humans showed up in their boats, and the sound was deafening. We wouldn't have heard a school of barracuda behind us if they were only a fin away, but by the time they'd come and gone a few times they'd taken the entire island trap with them. It was quieter in that ocean than I'd ever heard after they left, and they'd gone just in time for sunset too. It was the most beautiful day in my memory.”   Ahjah and Balou swam in silence for some time after that. Balou as he remembered, and Ahjah as she imagined, what a beautiful day that had been indeed.     Part 3   #45 In the vast ocean a little pod of dolphins plays in the wild waves   #46 Black and white creature in the boundless blue ocean leaps in happiness     [Conclusion:]   And that's the world I want to leave you with. Although this was a fictional story, it doesn't have to be.   We can each stand to make more sustainable choices in our everyday lives. If we buy more plant-based foods there will be less fishing nets out there to do harm. By recycling and reusing all that we can, there will be less plastic making its way into the ocean. If we shop as local as possible, there will be less need for shipments across oceans, which is one of the several causes of noise pollution that hinder many sea creature's ability to communicate and navigate.   The Earth can actually heal herself, but it'd be a lot easier for her to get better if we were working with her rather than against her. Let's each do our part.   Visit us.whales.org if you want to learn more about the multitude of mammals we share our oceans with and how you can contribute to creating a cleaner, healthier habitat for them.   And if you're interested in using your art for good, you can always join Ania's Sunshine Inspired Fauna Challenge over @sunshine_inspired_fauna on Instagram to help bring awareness to endangered species around the world and the organizations that are working to conserve them.

While talking to a friend about the documentary I mentioned in a previous episode called The Secret she pointed something out to me. The Secret features rich and famous interviewees like Jim Carey showing off their big-time-dreams-come-true, and these are people that it may be hard to relate to because their stories don't reflect… [POST IMAGE HERE]   [If your podcast app isn't showing the featured art for this episode above visit https://rebekahnemethy.com/artink27 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Rebekah Nemethy Title of Art: String Light Bokeh at twilight Instagram: @rebekahnemethy   The article on the Least Stormy Cities in the US (https://www.currentresults.com/Weather-Extremes/US/calmest-cities.php)   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs       Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   While talking to a friend about the documentary I mentioned in a previous episode called The Secret she pointed something out to me. The Secret features rich and famous interviewees like Jim Carey showing off their big-time-dreams-come-true, and these are people that it may be hard to relate to because their stories don't reflect the majority experience. They certainly didn't reflect my experience of the world.   And I want to say from the get-go that I'm not trying to judge The Secret in any way, because I'm incredibly grateful for it. I think it's amazing! But I feel strongly compelled to empower more people to embrace this mindset of conscious creation and what my friend helped me to realize is the power of the little bits of magick, that we might be able to actually relate to, to give us that initial proof we sometimes need to fully believe in our own power.   So today I'm going to share tiny, but undisputable, tales of real life magick. I'm excited to have a few of my own tales to tell, but I'm beyond thrilled to be able to share the experiences a couple of my closest friends have shared with me too.   But, before we get started, let's talk about our cover art for this episode.     [Art Description:]   Today I grabbed a photo from my own art library, because one of my favorite subjects to photograph are out of focus lights also known as bokeh to us photo nerds. This photo in particular was made in mid-winter, right at twilight. Photographers often talk about the esteemed golden hour when the sunlight casts beautiful light across the Earth just as it's going down, but on a thickly overcast day, golden hour is transformed into blue hour and that twilight hue in a winter sky is what fills the background of this image. Christmas lights are strung up across a railing in a wavelike pattern across the frame. Though, they are more like big yellow orbs, swollen from my intentional lack of focus.   There's nothing that looks so magickal to me as soft orbs of light. Little lights, big magick… which is a perfect way to introduce you to today's story:   Little Bits of Magick… enjoy.   [Story:]   It was Lauren's birthday, and she was headed to work when she realized she had just enough time to hit her favorite drive through coffee shop on the way. The café's app had alerted her that she had a birthday freebie coming her way, and she was happy to take them up on the offer. The universe seemed in perfect alignment, too, as there were only two cars in line, and Lauren pulled in and placed her order.   The first car quickly got their order and left, but the next one, the one that was just ahead of her… well… it was taking a bit longer for their order to come out. And as. the. minutes. ticked. by… Lauren started to get anxious. She was going to be late to work. Then, as the clock confirmed that she would indeed be late for sure now, she started to get frustrated.   “WTF did you order?” She muttered angrily to the car in front of her.   Finally, the car pulled away, and Lauren hastily pulled up to the window to get her coffee. But all her anger melted away when the girl at the window told her that she was all set, because the guy in front of her had already paid for her coffee.   When Lauren was telling me this story, late one night, on my birthday actually, she was expressing it with a lot of laughter but also with a splash of shame.   “I mean, I felt like such an ass… was he just being nice? Or did he see how angry I was getting and felt bad for holding me up with his massive order?” I mean, I'm paraphrasing, but she said something like that. And she felt some regret about not being able to say thank you, because he was already long gone.   But because we were talking about manifestation and how we create our reality earlier in our conversation, I tuned in right away to what happened. Did you catch it?   Lauren drove into that line already in the frequency of free coffee. It wasn't just a hopeful expectation, she knew, full stop, that she was getting a free coffee. So the universe matched that frequency with another free coffee.   And what Lauren told me next totally confirmed it, because later on, at work that very same day, she got another free coffee from a coworker. And was able to use that birthday freebie on her app later on that month.   So really, it doesn't matter if the guy bought her an apology coffee or a pay it forward kinda coffee, what counted, in this example at least, is that she knew she already had it.   This is why the rich seem to get richer and the poor seem to get poorer. Sometimes it's a challenge to change our frequency, because it's easier to stay stuck in old patterns. But if you start to pay attention, you may begin to see more and more what things, what energies, what frequencies are magnetized to you.   I was chatting with my friend Ania recently too and she told me another story that was pure magick.   She lives in dry, hot California, and has for the past decade or so, but originally she's from Poland, where there's a lot more rainfall and more frequent fluctuations in the weather. So naturally, when she was reminiscing with some friends one day, it came up in conversation how much Ania missed thunderstorms, which, by comparison, are a super rare occurrence where she lives now. In fact, according to this article on the Least Stormy Cities in the US, the top four cities with the fewest thunderstorms per year were San Francisco, San Diego, Sacramento, and Los Angeles all of which experience less than 5 days of storms per year.   Ania said something along the lines of, “I wish we'd get a thunderstorm soon.” But even though she said that, she wasn't holding her breath, because it was right smack in the middle of the dry season… maybe a few months from now she'd get her wish. Fat chance of it happening now though!   So Ania shrugged it off, and the conversation flowed onward.   Only a few hours later, out of nowhere… well can you guess what rolled on in? That's right, an earth shaking, grumbling, wind-thrashing thunderstorm that brought heavy rains and beautiful veins of lightning across the sky.   And Ania watched, front and center, as her wish from earlier literally came true before her eyes. The thunderstorm danced above her and she was exactly in the middle of it. A few lightning bolts hit so close that her house shook with thunder almost instantly. This was what made this experience so powerful to her; how close the storm got.   It was a most magickal moment, at least that's how it felt to me when she told me this story. I was grinning from ear to ear.   Ania was reminding me that nature is where we can witness those first, and sometimes most striking, manifestations come to life.   As a kid and in my teens I used to just sit outside in the woods; talk to nature. I'd literally ask questions aloud about my most pressing life issues… and the wind would answer me. It'd make noise up in the trees by rustling leaves, move my hair, brush my face. This still happens now, when I take the time to actually go out into nature.   But the other thing that stood out to me about Ania's story was her total and complete letting go of her wish. It wasn't like she was on her knees praying for rain and fearing her garden would suffer if she didn't get her prayers answered immediately. There was no desperation or expectations – she simply set her intention (even if unintentionally in this case haha) and she let it go.   But I want to get a little bit deeper about the letting go. The very nature of wanting something, to have a desire at all, emphasizes to the universe that we are in a state of lack, that we are lacking that thing we want. And so the universe gives us more of that lacking we're always feeling. This is why our manifestations pleasantly surprise us more often than not, because the magick that is most potent, the kind that creates quickly and powerfully, comes from a place of passionate curiosity.   And curiosity doesn't have attachments. Curiosity is more like, asking the universe: “What if?”   What if we could have a thunderstorm soon? Wouldn't that be amazing? Ah well, we'll see.   Rather than:   OMG, if it doesn't rain soon my yard will suffer or fires will do more damage than ever or (insert any other fear-driven thought/energy/emotion here).   Most of the time when we're trying to consciously manifest a desired result, we are holding on too tightly. And like a needy ex that keeps popping up on your phone, holding on like herpes just creates more resistance to actually receiving that thing.   So how do we create more consciously? How do we flip the switch so that we are magnetizing the energy we want more of instead of repelling it from us?   Be curious and playful and have fun.   Here's another example of some magick that happened in my own life recently that shows this playful curiosity at work.   I had been practicing pirouettes almost daily in my kitchen for a long time, probably a year or two, until I hurt myself, in an unrelated accident, and was forced to take a break from them. And then, by the time I was healed enough to try again, I kind of forgot about them for awhile. So when I finally realized hey, I should get back to those pirouettes, over a year had passed.   Yet, miraculously on my first attempt, I not only nailed it but I did a double! And then when I switched to my other foot, I did it again! It literally felt like someone else had taken control of my body and twirled me around perfectly like a ballerina in a music box. But then when I tried again after those two perfect double pirouettes, dozens of times between each foot, I was all over the place; teetering and stumbling. I couldn't even come close to those first two, flawless, attempts.   So the moment I got serious, and started focusing on the end result in the future instead of the curious playfulness of the present moment, well then all flow left my body and my desire, need, want for more perfect pirouettes started repelling my ability to do so. At the time those first two twirls felt like pure magick… but as I'm writing this I'm realizing that perhaps it's just pure presence that allows us to tap into that magick-like flow. Presence with a splash of curiosity and a sprinkling of playfulness. That is one powerful recipe for magick.   Ok because I promised you a more negative manifestation story, as in, how I unconsciously and inadvertently created my reality, I've got one more to share with you today. I think you'll get a kick out of it.   Nick bought an Amish Fireplace, it's an oxymoron of a thing, but we love it. It's basically an electric heater, that simulates a fire on front, and it's housed inside a beautifully carved, Amish-crafted mahogany wood case that we roll around our house as the seasons change. In the warmer months it's my night stand in the bedroom, and in winter we move it into the living room which is the coldest room in the house, with its big bay window and drafty front door.   Well when we decided to roll it on out into the living room a couple of winters ago, we knew that we had to use an extension cord to avoid tripping the breaker when both watching TV and using the fireplace at the same time. The year previous we kept tripping over the cable and eventually taped it down. So I reminded Nick to grab the Gaffer's tape as he was setting it all up.   Now you should know that I'm the perfectionist in our relationship, although I have been doing a lot of work to be more laid back, like Nick, and learn to let things go. But when I walked out into that living room I couldn't stop myself.   “Really?” I said. I remember it being an incredulous mixture of laughter and anger.   Instead of running the wires underneath the TV stand and along the wall, like I would have, taping it down across the entryway into the kitchen, he sloppily taped it in a long ugly line straight from the heater to the outlet. But even though I was prepared to let go of the messiness of it, I couldn't let go of the worst offense. We have one of those extension cords that has a thick end with room for three plugs, and Nick had taped that huge, outlet section of wire right in the middle of the path we walk the most.   “Come on Nick… are you serious? If I knew you were gonna do it like that I would have just done it myself.”   “What?” He asked as he came into the room.   “I'm gonna break my fucking toe on that thing! Why would you do it that way?!” But like I said, I really was working on my perfectionism and trying to lessen my nagginess factor, so after venting about it and laughing, I was like whatever, maybe I just need to let this go.   I don't remember if it was that day or the day after, but it wasn't long before I went strolling through the living room and kicked that thing so hard it was like I was in the world cup trying to score the winning goal. Instead of “Goal!” however I screamed out in pain and limped into the kitchen, tears involuntarily starting to form in the corners of my eyes.   Nick came running, and when he saw the look on my face he felt so bad he immediately started pulling up the tape to reroute the bulky mass to another location.   But I'd realized what had happened, and I couldn't be mad at him about it. “I totally manifested that,” I said with a bitter laugh.       [Conclusion:]   Hey there magick makers, I hope you enjoyed this episode as much as I enjoyed creating it, because the truth is I have a whole lot more where these came from. So many, in fact, I'm already planning a Little Bits of Magick Part 2 episode. What about you, though? Do you have any of your own bits of magick you'd like to share with us?   If so… you're about to get the deets on how you can submit your story.   Virtual hugs to Lauren and Ania for letting me share your stories, and of course a great big hug to you too dear listeners. Ta ta for now!

Hey ya'll. I just wanted to pop in to give you a bit of a belated introduction to the new series of episodes I've been creating… Transcript: Hey ya'll. I just wanted to pop in to give you a bit of a belated introduction to the new series of episodes I've been creating. They're a bit different from the art inspired shows that you may have come to expect from this podcast. The original Art Ink episodes have more of a get-lost-in-a-story type of vibe while some of the newer shows encourage deep thinking, reflection, and aim to inspire you to take action creating the masterpiece that is your life (and your life's work). To give you a heads up about what to expect from each show, I've decided to give this new stream of podcast episodes its own name: Life Art. In many ways Life Art is the lovechild of my photo blog and this podcast, as it can be deeply personal and spiritual. It's also full of ah-ha moments and the kind of experiences that can only be described as pure magick. But although the tone of this new content may feel vastly different from the short stories previously published here, Life Art has more in common with Art Ink than you may recognize at first.   Life is, after all, an exploration. Life is a canvas on which to create. Life is art and living life is an art.   Every thought a brushstroke. Every step a dance. And by sharing my personal experiences consciously (and sometimes unconsciously) creating my life, I hope that you'll start to recognize the power, the magick, that you've already been wielding all along. So from here on out you'll see Life Art in the title of new episodes that fall under this category. They may challenge your view of the world, or they may help you to create more art, joy, and abundance in your life… maybe it'll all make perfect sense. Like you were meant to come here and hear this message at exactly this time. That's happened to me more times than I can count. Guess you'll never know ‘til you take a listen, though, huh? So just to recap, if you're looking for entertainment stick with the original Art Ink episodes, if you're looking for inspiration or motivation to be a more conscious creator in your life, well then you're going to love Life Art. No matter which kind of Art Ink episode you prefer to listen to, however, you'll still get the chance to discover new art, and new artists with your ears. So on that note, my friends, happy listening!!!

Ania is an awe-inspiring designer whose Instagram feed is filled with drawings and photographs of gorgeous flowers and animals. She's the illustrator of the children's book Calvin the Claustrophobic Caterpillar and she's also the creator of @sunshine_inspired_fauna, which brings awareness to endangered animals and the non-profits that help them with beautiful works of art by a variety of uber talented artists. So naturally…     [If your podcast app isn't showing the featured art for this episode above visit https://rebekahnemethy.com/artink26 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Ania Archer Ania's Instagram: @ania_archer The children's book Ania illustrated: Calvin the Claustrophobic Caterpillar Sunshine Inspired Fauna on Instagram: @sunshine_inspired_fauna   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs     Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]/[Art Description:]   The way today's cover art found it's way to me is similar to how its artist found me. Ania Archer is without a doubt my soul sister, we have so much in common it's kinda scary. She's an adventurous, animal-loving creative who's always amazing me with the talent that shines through in whatever project she puts her heart into. But if I hadn't stepped out of my comfort zone a few years ago, I never would have met Ania. And I might be wrong, but I'd venture to guess she had to step out of her own comfort zone back then too.   I was creating a podcast about animal rescue at that time and one of my guests offered to reciprocate the interview and put me on her show too. At first I was like, uhhh, no... that sounds way too scary. The host of the show was such a well-spoken, intelligent vegan activist, and I was like groupie watching from afar.   Needless to say I didn't feel I was in her league, and I was sure she was just being kind. And honestly, even though I ended up taking advantage of that kindness and going on her show, I'm sure my insecurities are all very clear in that episode.   But guess what?   Ania ended up hearing that podcast! And she really connected with my story about wanting to escape the work force and pursue a life of passion. She started listening to my podcast and eventually she reached out to me to let me know all about it.   We connected on Instagram and before I even read her message her name so looked familiar to me. I soon discovered that not only did we both subscribe to the same podcast she found me on, but we also followed one of my other superheroes at the time, maybe even liking and commenting on the same posts. And these two women are completely unrelated. One is not even on social media at all.   This synchronicity clearly told me Ania was a person I could relate to, and so I was able to trust that meeting her in person was a step outside my comfort zone that might be worth taking.   And I was so right.   Fast forward a few years later and I'm trying very hard to make an effort to keep this podcast going. So I decide to dig into my old short story archive to give me some breathing room.   The first short story I ever wrote would be perfect for Halloween, but what art could I use?   Ania is an awe-inspiring designer whose Instagram feed is filled with drawings and photographs of gorgeous flowers and animals. She's the illustrator of the children's book Calvin the Claustrophobic Caterpillar and she's also the creator of @sunshine_inspired_fauna, which brings awareness to endangered animals and the non-profits that help them with beautiful works of art by a variety of uber talented artists. So naturally she's the first person I think of that might already have horse art in her archive. But I'd already scrolled through her feed and didn't see anything.   I ask on Instagram if any artists have horse art they want to share. I get crickets. So I decide maybe it's just not meant to be right now.   It later comes up in conversation, however, and she tells me she might have some horse photos I could use.   I feel resistant asking, because I know how I feel when I sign up for extra projects that I didn't plan for, but she insists that she could use the motivation.   Ok, here's where the magick bit lies. I've been having a lot of resistance to changing my art-inspired episodes to an art-pairing model. I've told myself that I created this to empower artists and I should be putting them first. So that I was asking for art for my pre-existing story felt wrong with this narrative running through my head.   So I decide, in order to make myself feel better, that I will see what photos Ania pulls up and I will adapt the story by making the horse look like the photo. Why not, right?   I feel much better after that decision and I go on with my life for a few days.   Later on, Ania gets in touch with me to give me a teaser and she sends a screenshot of all these beautiful horses she's photographed. And right smack in the middle is the gray dappled horse I'd written about when I was 14 years old.   All this time, I had this idea in my head that the perfectly paired art can only be perfect if the story was written with its influence in mind first and foremost. But really that was just a huge block in my trusting the universe in its ability to give me exactly what I need when I let go of how it's supposed to happen.   Not to take away credit from you Ania! Because I know that you're the one who did all the physical 3D work for me on the universe's behalf! And I sincerely thank you for that!   Friends, please be sure to check out the cover art when you can, to see the handsome horse who stars in today's story, and take a look at what Ania's working on right now @ania_archer on Instagram. Link in the shownotes.   And now, I want to share with you the first short story I ever wrote.   [Story:]   The Midnight Rider     “Hello?” Joshua Milton left a trail of puddles as he ran to the phone with only a towel wrapped around his waist.          “I have great news!” Jack Milton said.          “What's that?” Josh asked without interest. He had rushed to the phone expecting to hear a female voice. Lisa was supposed to call him today.          “I bought a house!” Jack said, “we can move in next week!”          “Whoa, Dad, slow down,” His father had spent the weekend in the country to take a look at some property, but Josh assumed he was only looking. “You bought a house?”          “Yup,” Jack said, “it has four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and it's sitting on twenty-five acres of property. Everything's in fine condition, and it's only about two hours from the city.”          “But how are we going to afford a place like that?” asked Josh, still a bit stunned. They were moving into an actual house? Quite a change from the usual cramped apartments he and his father had been used to.          “Oh, don't you worry about it,” Jack said, “I got a great deal on the place and the taxes out here are nothing compared to the city's.” “Well that's great dad,” urban life was tiring, “when are we leaving?”          “Wait a minute,” Josh heard his father laugh, “you haven't even heard the best part yet; Mr. Turner, the original owner of the house, gave us his horse.”          “Why would he do that?”          “Oh, I dunno, I guess he's just too old to take care of it, but I thought you might like him.” Josh's father replied, “you loved working at the stables when you lived with your mother!”          “Yeah, I had a great time,” Josh said, he remembered all the dirty work he did in exchange for riding lessons, “but you don't know anything about this horse. Are you sure he's sound?”          “Oh, I'm sure he'll be just fine, and he sure is a beauty. He's a dapple-gray thoroughbred. I bet you can't wait to see him, huh?”          “Yeah, dad, it all seems great,” Josh lied. Even though he was becoming increasingly excited about moving, something seemed too good to be true about this horse.          “Well, I'll be home in a few hours and we can start packing first thing in the morning.”          “Okay, see ya later dad.”          “Bye.”              A week later, after the endless packing, planning, and the heartbreaking ‘goodbye's' and ‘I'll write you's,' Josh and his father were finally on their way to their new home. As they were nearing their destination the surroundings began to change from rows of buildings, stores, and bumper to bumper traffic to trees, fields, and long, straight roads stretching on forever without a car in sight. The sun was just beginning to set and the orangey-pink clouds seemed to stretch on forever in all directions of the vast sky.          “Here we are,” Jack said as he turned the moving truck into the long, unpaved driveway. The house was big; probably too big for just two people. It was a slightly off-white color with charcoal gray shutters. Behind the house was a small white barn adjacent to a rectangular riding ring. Most of the property's twenty-five acres were fenced in, green pastures with hardly any trees aside from the few that surrounded the house.          “So where's this horse?” Josh asked, as he spun around, glancing at each pasture.          “He's in his stall over there,” Jack pointed to the barn, “you wanna see him?”          “Sure,” Josh was already walking toward the barn. Jack followed his son and looked on as Josh slid the door open. There were six stalls, three on each side and a tack room at the far end of the building.          As soon as the horse heard the door open he threw his head up, startled, with his blue eyes wide open. As the boy approached the horse, he stuck his nose between the bars of the stall, sniffing Josh's hand. “Wow dad, you were right,” Josh said, “he is beautiful.”          “You like him?” Jack sounded pleased.          “He's great dad, thanks! I think I'll name him Smoke.”          “Sounds good to me, now I'm going to get started unpacking. Why don't you put Smoke out for the night and then come help me?”          “Okay,” Josh said. He spotted a halter hanging on a hook beneath a brass plate with the name “Mystic” engraved into it. Josh grabbed the halter and cautiously opened the stall door, not knowing exactly what to expect.          “Easy boy,” Josh whispered. To his surprise, he had no reason to be nervous. Smoke walked up to Josh, smelt the halter, and placed his nose right into it himself. All Josh had to do was buckle it in place and lead the horse to the pasture.          “It's too late now Smoke,” Josh said as he opened the metal gate, “but maybe tomorrow we could go for a ride, huh boy?” Josh took off his halter and watched as the horse put his head down to graze.          “See ya tomorrow, Smoke.”              Later that night Josh awoke to a horse's whinny. At first the sound had made its way into Josh's dreams: he saw images of horses, an entire herd of them, galloping across a stream. He opened his eyes with a start, realizing the crying horse was real.          Josh tripped over empty boxes on his way to the open window. Peeking outside, squinting, he tried to distinguish one shadow from another while his eyes were adjusting to the bright moonlight. Another whinny sounded and Josh caught sight of Smoke pacing in front of the gate, haphazardly snorting and rearing like he was trying to run up an invisible wall to the sky.          Josh was contemplating whether or not he should go take a closer look, when a cold breeze swept through the window and he took cover against the wall. When he looked outside once more the horse was calm again. If Josh hadn't seen him prancing around only moments before he wouldn't have suspected a bit of excitement.          Smoke stood with his head over the fence and his ears directed forward. He seemed to be focusing on something in front of him, but what? There was nothing but an empty field ahead. Deciding to investigate, he grabbed a pair of jeans from the floor and pulled them over his boxers. He slipped on a pair of sneakers and hurried outside.          A thick fog had formed during Josh's short trip from the window to the front door. When he got to the fence, Josh could just barely make out Smoke's vague outline through the mist. That was when he noticed that he was not alone. On the other side of the fence, petting Smoke along his snout was a pretty, smiling, young girl. She had long, wavy, blonde hair that sparkled in the silver light. The girl wore tan riding pants, with black boots that rose to her knees and her untucked, white blouse billowed in the breeze.          Josh approached her, in a daze, while she still seemed unaware of his presence. When he was halfway to her he tried to speak, but a stuttering “h-hey,” was all that he could get out.          The girl gasped at seeing him, spun around, and sprinted toward the woods. “Wait!” Josh called, “it's okay, come back!” He started to chase after her, but she had already disappeared between the tree trunks by the time he made it halfway across the field.          Wow, Josh thought, she's fast! He bent down for a moment, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Oh well,” he muttered and, as he began to walk back to the house, he noticed the fog had lifted and the breeze had vanished.              “Come on kiddo,” Josh's dad yelled with only his head poking in the bedroom doorway, “it's after eight. Get up!”          “Too early,” Josh said, pulling the covers over his head.          “Oh no you don't,” Jack said, as he entered Josh's room. He grabbed the comforter and pulled it off of Josh completely. “Breakfast's on the table. I wanna celebrate the first day in our new home together before I start working.”          “Alright, alright,” Josh said, but the only movement he made was to shield his eyes from the bright rays of sunshine that were pouring through the window. After a while he rose from his bed.          A few minutes later, Josh was downstairs sitting down to a tofu scramble breakfast wrap with his father. “So, how's the book going?”          “Oh, just a few more revisions and I can send it out,” Jack said. “It should be done in a week or so.”          “Great,” Josh said through a mouthful of tofu. He never understood what his father found so wonderful about writing, but it always made him happy to talk about it.          “So, you gonna ride Smoke today?”          “Yup,” Josh said, remembering the previous night's experience. He decided against informing his father about the strange girl he had seen, although he couldn't help wondering if he'd ever see her again. “I wonder if she lives around here,” Josh said aloud.          “Huh?”          “Um, nothing,” Josh said, “I was just talking to myself.”          “Oh,” Jack said, “well I'm going to get to work, see ya later.” He rose from his seat, bringing his plate to the sink and leaving the room.          “I didn't even get her name,” now that Josh's father had gone he could continue speaking his thoughts aloud. “Oh well,” he sighed, “let's see how Smoke's doing.”          “What's the matter boy?” he asked. Smoke had become calm since last night. “You miss her too, huh?” Josh patted down his long, muscular neck.          He found Smoke's halter and brought the horse back to the barn. “I'm just gonna clean you up a little,” he said as he secured Smoke to the crossties, “and then we're gonna get you tacked up so we can go for a ride.” Josh grabbed a few brushes and a hoof pick. “Now how does that sound?”          Smoke replied only by looking intently at Josh with his ears forward, listening to his young new companion. “Sounds good to me too,” Josh said as if he'd gotten an answer from the horse.          He brushed the majestic creature thoroughly, covering every part of his body in order to examine him. When he finished, Smoke's coat shone like a show horse's. His thick tail almost reached the floor and was trimmed evenly as was his mane. It was obvious that Smoke's previous owners had taken care of him. And not for the first time, Josh wondered why they'd abandon him.          Smoke stood still as Josh went to the tack room to find a saddle. When Josh returned with it he could have sworn he saw the horse widen his eyes, but he didn't move. After saddling him, Josh retrieved the horse's bridle and was surprised when Smoke opened his mouth for the bit without command.          “So far, so good,” Josh said as he walked the horse out to the ring. After adjusting his stirrups, he stepped up onto the side of a nearby fence and climbed onto the tall horse. In one rough motion Smoke reared up and then bucked his rider high into the air. Josh went flying over the horse's head and landed on his back.   ***          Josh rolled his eyes and pounded the ground. “I spoke too soon.”          At dinner that night Josh let his father in on how he felt about Smoke, “What a great horse you picked!”          “Yeah?” Jack asked, “you really like him?”          “I was being sarcastic.”          “Oh?” Jack looked up from his plate, “what's wrong with him?”          “I dunno, he was fine in the beginning, but as soon as I got on him I was thrown off,” Josh said, “I knew this was a bad idea.”          “Well did you try to get back on him? Maybe he just got spooked, or maybe his saddle was bothering him.”          “Yeah, he just threw me off again,” Josh lied. “There was nothing there to scare him, and I checked his saddle. He's just not a good horse!”          “Well I'm going to call Mr. Turner in the morning,” Jack said, “I'll find out if Smoke has ever behaved this way before.”          “Whatever you want,” Josh said, and headed to his bedroom. He left an empty plate on the table for his father to clean up. Smoke seemed so great at first. Josh had had his doubts, of course, but after he'd met him Josh had let a sense of hope infiltrate his fears.          Josh sat in his room, flipping through channels for hours while his mind remained on Smoke and the strange girl he'd probably never see again. It was past twelve when he decided to go to bed.          Josh closed his eyes knowing he would never fall asleep. There was a nice breeze coming in from the window, sending the white curtains flying inwards as if they were ghosts reaching out for him. Josh just watched as they flew, longing to get up and peer past them and wishing that, when he did, he would see the nameless girl he had seen the night before. Just then Josh heard a soft, rhythmic pounding coming from outside. Hoof beats? Still wide awake, he jumped from his bed and ran to the window and, as if it were a dream, there she was. This time, though, the girl was atop the gray creature and, together, they sped through the ring.          Josh didn't even have time to think before he was on his way to the girl on his horse. He didn't want to miss his chance this time. He made his way outside and watched her from afar, not wanting to scare her away again. She rode with the horse's every stride as if she'd been born on his back. The young girl was so involved in her riding that Josh figured even if he did walk right up to the ring she wouldn't have noticed anyways. Still, Josh waited until after Smoke and his gorgeous rider had slowed from a canter to a walk. The girl's hair, which was once flowing far behind her head, now rested on her shoulders as she gave him a pleased pat on the neck. Only then did Josh venture to approach her. “He must really like you,” Josh said. At once the girl turned Smoke around, preparing to run away again. “Please don't leave,” Josh said, not worried this time because he knew she couldn't get very far in the enclosed ring.          She seemed to notice this herself and turned Smoke back to face Josh. “Why do you keep running away from me?” Josh asked as he began to walk toward the two of them. The girl just stared at him with her green eyes. “Well you got a name?”          “Elizabeth,” she said, looking down at the nearing boy.          Josh smiled, he was thinking of what a perfect voice Elizabeth had to complement her other perfect features. “I'm Josh,” he said extending his hand. She took his hand as she swung one leg over the horse and jumped down. Still clutching her hand, Josh moved behind her, caught her with his free arm and lowered her to the ground.          “You're great with him,” Josh said as she spun around in his embrace and then broke free from it. She grabbed Smoke's reins and brought them over his head. “Would you like to help me with him tomorrow?” he asked, “I don't think he likes me very much.”          Elizabeth started to lead Smoke out of the ring with Josh close behind them, “you mean you're not mad at me?” she asked.          “Why would I be mad?”          “I don't know,” Elizabeth said, “I don't think I can help you, sorry.”          “Oh,” Josh hoped he hid his disappointment, “it's ok.” They were outside the ring and heading toward the barn. “Have you ridden Smoke before? You're just so good with him.”          “You could say that,” Elizabeth said as she unbridled and untacked the horse, “and his name is Mystic,” she added.          “Have you been coming here every night?”          “Some nights.”          “Oh,” Josh watched in silence as Elizabeth finished with the horse and led him to his stall. He couldn't help thinking about how much he wanted to touch her again, to wrap his arms around her tiny waist and pull her close to him. He had never seen a girl so beautiful before. Her skin was flawless, it even seemed to glow a little, and her emerald eyes struck him like lightning when they met his own.          “Well, it's getting late,” Elizabeth said, “I'm going to get out of here.”          “Where do you live? Do you need a ride?”          “No,” she said. She was already exiting the barn into the darkness, “I live just up the road. I can walk.”            “Are you sure?”          “Yeah,” she walked past Josh through the pasture where she had run away from him the first time they met.          “Okay,” Josh said, “will I see you again?”          Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders and continued walking. Josh watched her as she disappeared into the night, noticing that she didn't go anywhere near the road. Instead, she was lost in the darkness of the woods ahead. Maybe it's a shortcut Josh thought and returned to the barn to shut off all the lights and close up.          When he finally returned to bed he saw that it was about one-thirty and, this time, he had no trouble falling asleep.                     Josh woke up early the next morning. On his way down to breakfast he heard someone speaking and wondered if his father had company. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he saw him replacing the phone on its receiver. “Who was that?”          “Mr. Turner,” Jack said, “I was calling to ask about Smoke.”          “And?”          “And he said that ‘Mystic,'” he drew the quotation marks in the air, “hasn't been the same since his last owner…” Jack hesitated, “Mr. Turner's daughter just recently died. Smoke was her horse and, apparently, she was the only one who could ride him. Mr. Turner said he was sorry for giving him to us when he knew all along he would behave that way, but he also told me it was his only choice. No one would take the horse and it was too heartbreaking to keep him around.”          “Oh.” Josh was, once again, tempted to tell his father about Elizabeth. Elizabeth could ride Smoke, I saw her, he wanted to say, she could help us with him, but no such words came out. Josh's father would ask too many questions, questions Josh didn't have any answers to. Even he didn't know much of the girl who could save this horse.          “I guess we'll have to get rid of him,” Jack said the words Josh was expecting, but didn't want to hear.          “No, just give me a little more time,” Josh said, knowing that he could convince Elizabeth to help once he told her what would happen to Smoke if she didn't. “I'm sure I can work with him.”          “Whatever you want,” his father said, turning to retreat to his office. He began to walk away but then he spun around. “Josh, could you go pick some things up for me at the store?” He tossed his keys to his son assuming he would agree. “Get some computer paper, and whatever else we need around here,” he said, handing Josh two twenties. Then he resumed his trail to the office.          “No prob,” Josh said, gladly taking the money and the keys to his father's '89 Mustang. It was old, but the car had muscle and Josh took every opportunity he was given to drive it.          Soon, Josh was speeding down the straight, country road. Being used to driving in the city, he rarely had the chance to reach speeds over thirty but here he was going eighty without another car in sight. The wind whipped at his overgrown hair through both open windows. He neared town and his racecar fantasy diminished as he turned into a small plaza.          After Josh finished gathering up his father's paper in the general store, he grabbed a few bags of chips and some salsa. There was only one checkout counter and behind the register stood a boy around Josh's age, maybe sixteen or seventeen. He had short, black hair and dark, blue eyes.          “Haven't seen you around here before,” the cashier said as he rang up the few items Josh had presented to him, “just passing through?”          “No, actually, I just moved here.”          “Ok, Ok. So you're the one who moved into the old Turner house, huh?”          “Yeah.”          “It's a small town,” he said, seeing Josh's surprise, “I'm Chad.” He placed the bagged purchases on the counter and then offered Josh his hand.          “Josh.”          “Hey, I'm not doing anything tomorrow, you need someone to show you around?” Chad asked.          Josh felt relieved, “sure, I'm not busy.” It would be a good idea, he thought, to get to know whoever he could before school started.          Chad handed Josh his bag, “How about twelve? I'll meet you at your house?”          “Sounds good,” Josh said.              At a little past eleven-thirty that night, Josh crept around the barn and scanned the surrounding fields, looking especially close in the direction Elizabeth was heading last night. Finding no trace of her, he sat down with his back against the side of the barn facing where Elizabeth would be coming from.          The nighttime sounds of the country relaxed Josh, and after a few minutes he was allowing the crickets' songs to rock him to sleep with their rhythm. Hearing a familiar whinny, he awoke with a start. He stood up and peered in the direction in which his horse was looking. At the edge of the woods Elizabeth was departing from a settling layer of fog. Josh began to walk toward her and they met in the middle where Smoke stood. Together, the two reached out to stroke the side of his long gray neck. Elizabeth grasped the horse's head with her free hand and pulled his face to hers, gently kissing him on the nose.          “I need your help Elizabeth.” He stared at her, searching for an expression that would reveal her answer before her words did. He found nothing, “My dad's going to get rid of him if you don't help me.”          “Okay,” she said, “but I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for him.” She still hadn't taken her glowing, green eyes away from the horse.          “So when do we start?” Josh was glad she had agreed. Not only would he get to keep Smoke, but he would also be able to spend more time with Elizabeth.          “Tomorrow at midnight.”          “Okay,” perfect, Josh thought. He didn't want his father to find out about Elizabeth just yet, and he wanted to be alone with her. “I'm glad I met you.”          Elizabeth smiled as she looked up at him and, for an instant, Josh saw the same sparkling emeralds he saw when she was adoring the horse. For what seemed like a lifetime, a moment frozen, they just stood there, searching each other's eyes until, as if a jealous gesture, Smoke suddenly snorted loudly and threw his head between them.          The two of them laughed at the horse and Josh grabbed Elizabeth's hand and pulled her toward him. Only after he was sure she wouldn't try to escape his embrace did he let go of her hand and reach out to caress her pale cheek. “You're so cold,” Josh remarked as he leaned down to kiss her, “lemme warm you up,” he whispered.          “Josh!” A far away voice interrupted him. “Josh are you out here?”          “I think I should go,” Elizabeth pulled away from him and started for the woods.          Great timing dad, he thought. “Yeah, I'm right here,” he called, rolling his eyes.              As the sun crawled across Josh's bed and began to shine into his eyes he rolled over, glancing at his clock. Twelve o'clock! Josh realized that Chad was going to show up any minute. He was ready to go in under five and flew downstairs only to find that Chad still hadn't arrived. Josh wandered into the kitchen and fixed a bowl of cereal. By the time he was done eating there was a knock at the door.            Chad spent nearly all day giving Josh the grand tour. It was a small town, yes, but a small town with a long history and Chad seemed to know it all. Josh saw where'd he'd be going to school, a tiny school with only about eighty students. He was introduced to the town hall, where almost all activities took place; dances were held there, as well as bingo tournaments for the older citizens, and occasionally parties were held for the entire town, though not many people attended them. To Josh, this place seemed more and more like a really big family than it was a town.          As the sun was beginning to go down the boys were cruising up and down the streets while Chad pointed out houses. He knew every family in every home and was able to include an amusing anecdote in each introduction. Chad continued on and Josh's mind began to wander to Elizabeth.          “And that's old man Grady's house, don't even think about setting foot on his property. Last time someone ‘trespassed,' as he would call it—”          “Where does Elizabeth live?”          “Elizabeth?” Chad said, “Elizabeth who?”          “I didn't catch her last name.”          “Well there are no Elizabeths around here that I know of,” he paused, “not anymore anyway.”          “What do you mean ‘not anymore?'”          “There used to be an Elizabeth in your house, Elizabeth Turner,” said Chad.          “But she died,” Josh pronounced each word slowly, coming to an outrageous conclusion. Elizabeth was… dead? Simultaneously everything and nothing made sense. It all seemed to fit together now, puzzle pieces now clasped in a bear hug with Elizabeth's death as the glue. But it was all so real though, Josh thought. He'd touched her. She had to be real, real and alive.          “Yeah,” Chad said sighing, oblivious to Josh's shock, “and she was cute too, a little weird, but cute.” He paused only for a second, “anyways, there's a dance tonight at the hall. It's the last dance of the summer and you could meet some people. You wanna go?” But Josh wasn't listening. “Josh?… Josh?”          “Huh?”          “You wanna go?” Chad repeated.          “Go?” Josh asked, “Where?”          “The dance.”          “No thanks, I have to meet someone tonight.”              Josh waited up for Elizabeth all night. He didn't know what to think. They'd planned to meet at twelve, and here it was, three in the morning and no sign of her. Josh knew she'd be there soon and she'd laugh at him and assure him that she was one hundred percent alive. He would touch her and she'd be warm… unlike the night before.          By four Josh had lost all hope. He couldn't keep reassuring himself, Elizabeth was gone and he was going crazy; seeing ghosts. Josh had just decided to go to bed when a familiar breeze stopped him in his tracks. He didn't turn around, “Elizabeth?” He stood stiff, suddenly afraid of what he might see. He'd never even considered the thought that she might be dead any other time he'd seen her, but now every shadow that loomed ahead of him in the moonlight made him shudder.          “I'm sorry,” she whispered back, “I should have let him go, but I didn't.”          Josh spun around, searching for the girl with the emerald eyes he longed to see. All he could find, though, was the familiar mist that had formed while he was turned away.          “He's yours now,” her voice faded and the fog seemed to be sucked back into the woods until it completely disappeared. The wind blew and Smoke snorted as he reared up, hooves thrashing through the air.   ***   “Get back on him Josh, c'mon get up!” Josh opened his eyes and it was day again. Josh lay on the ground with a close-up of Smoke's nose. “Wow, he really threw you, Josh,” Jack was cracking up, “I saw him buck you from the office window. I figured I was missing the rodeo.” Josh rose from his former position on his back on the hard ground. “Now you get back on him, you know the saying,” Jack continued to laugh at himself, “when you fall off a horse you gotta get back on again.” What just happened? Where was Elizabeth and what about Chad? Were they real, were they alive? Josh remembered now, he had just fallen off Smoke. Everything was going fine until he got on him. Was I knocked out? Josh wondered. “So are you gonna try again?” Jack asked. “Yeah,” Josh finally understood. He walked over to Smoke, stood on the adjacent fence and hopped on once again. This time, though, Smoke didn't budge. A light tap of Josh's heels and the horse was off. He cantered once around the ring and came to a stop as Josh slowed him down. Josh threw himself forward and gave Smoke's neck a hug. “She was right,” he whispered to the horse, “she just had to let you go. “How do you like the sound of Mystic Smoke?”     [Conclusion:]   This story is close to my heart. Not just because it's the first story I ever finished, but also because of the vivid memory I have of writing it all in one sitting in this zone of focus I've rarely been able to replicate since.   It's been edited a few times over the past 20 years, and to be honest there are some things in here as a more aware animal activist that I'm a bit conflicted about.   But this was what the teenager version of me knew as normal, the girl who had a horse named Baby Starbuck and was thrown from him while riding bareback in the snow one day in much the same manner as Josh was thrown from Smoke, and so I've left these things in as a memory of who I used to be. And to help me gauge how far I've come in my relationship to animals; trying to be more of a companion to them than their keeper.   With that said, I'm still in awe of how perfect Ania's photograph is for this story. There was no way for me to explain this little bit of magic before you heard it, but the horse in today's cover art has his ears facing in completely opposite directions, which to anyone who knows horses means his attention is divided. To me it's as if there's an invisible person in the background whispering in his ear. Almost as if… well maybe he's still deciding between Elizabeth and Josh.   A huge and heart felt thank you, to Ania for sharing your art with us today. Please go and check out Ania's latest photography, color palettes, illustrations, and designs over @ania_archer on Instagram.   And you know what, I think art-pairings are going to be a thing now, so stay tuned. I'll be talking more about how you can submit your art for consideration on Art Ink without having to write a thing.   Thank you all so much for listening, I hope you all have a magickally spooky Halloween!

Today we're going to start with the art, because what's interesting is that I made the photo that appears on this episode's cover before I really knew how ubiquitous frequency is in our reality. Everything is made of energy and therefore, everything has a frequency… literally everything… but before I hop into that bunny pit…   [If your podcast app isn't showing the featured art for this episode above visit https://rebekahnemethy.com/artink25 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Yours Truly Title of Art: Rolling Rs with Wine   The Sacred Geometry Movie by Spirit Science (The bit that inspired this essay can be found between 01:16:05 to 01:20:20 – 4 minutes well worth it!)   The double slit experiment – If you have Hulu, the best explanation I've seen is in season 3, episode 9 (titled Magic without Lies) of Cosmos: Possible Worlds with Neil DeGrasse Tyson.   In case that's not available anymore, here's another explanation with Joe Scott on YouTube: Down the Rabbit Hole of the Double Slit Experiment   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs       Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]/[Art Description:]     Today we're going to start with the art, because what's interesting is that I made the photo that appears on this episode's cover before I really knew how ubiquitous frequency is in our reality. Everything is made of energy and therefore, everything has a frequency… literally everything… but before I hop into that bunny pit, I want to describe the cover photo, for those of you who are operating heavy machinery and can't see it right now, and give you a behind the scenes look at how I made it.   On a black background, a jagged, diamond-shaped waveform made of thin, teal green lines stands out in sharp focus on the left side of the image. And in case you don't know what a waveform is, because I didn't before I started editing audio, it's that squiggly line often used to represent music and voiceover brands – think of what a heart rate monitor looks like. On the right side is a similarly shaped waveform, except this one looks smudged and blurry – and around this teal blur is a circular swoosh of red, like someone painted around it with light.   I created this image in a couple of steps. First I downloaded an app that made real-time waveforms of my voice appear full screen on my phone as I was talking. Then I proceeded to make a bunch of silly sounds. Off the top of my head I ohhhmmmed, and rolled my Rs, and probably face farted into my phone too if I know myself like I totally do. I took screen shots of the most interesting looking sounds and transferred them to my laptop.   With the now larger, full screen images displayed on the computer, I turned off all the other lights in my studio except for one bare LED bulb; which is actually a Halloween prop designed to look like a flickering flame. (Nick won it during a pumpkin-carving party his friends throw every year.) On a tripod, I pointed my camera towards the laptop and filled the frame with the glowing wave on the screen, then made sure the red light wasn't spilling onto it. Between the camera and the computer screen I used a wine glass to distort parts of the screen, while also catching the ghostly glow of red light.   As usual, this photo, and a few others from this series can be seen either on today's cover, in the show notes, or on my website which will be linked in the show notes, but, for now, let's back to the significance of frequency, shall we?   Riding the Wave – An Exploration of Why Suffering Exists     [Story:]   I wish I could tell you who said this, because it hit me like a train would were I daydreaming along a track. “When you stand in the light, you still cast a shadow.”   In other words, it is impossible, in the 3d world we exist in, to have all light and no dark. And that fact seemed like an epiphany before I knew all that I know now… and I'm still learning my friends… I'm still learning.   So, frequency. We see examples of how frequency is measured in modern day life all the time. We already talked about heart rate monitors and audio files, but what about radio waves, earthquake measurement tools or polygraph tests? I mean a spoken lie is scientifically proven to have a different frequency pattern than a spoken truth. That's kind of mind blowing, don't you think?   While I was observing what sounds made what shapes when I was in the screenshoting phase of my photo project, I discovered another surprise. You know the ohhhmmm sound you'll hear and perhaps chant yourself in a yoga or meditation class? Ohhhmmm. Well this sound was actually the most symmetrical waveform I could make in the time I spent experimenting.   I was in shock.   It was kind of an, aha shock, though, more like, OMG that makes complete sense, why do we not teach THIS kinda shit in school. Of course we ohhhmmm to get more in sync with the universe. Duh. And then I sat back on the little black love seat in my baby blue studio and I smiled, because life made a little more sense in that moment.   Months later I came across an amazing YouTube video by a channel called Spirit Science. It's 104 minute animated film called The Sacred Geometry Movie, that basically breaks down the geometry of our reality. It was so fascinating that I've watched it 3 times already, and if you want to jump to the bit that had a hand in inspiring this essay specifically, I'll have the time stamp along with a link so you can watch it for yourself. Which means, by the time you hear this, I'll most likely have already watched it a 4th time, ya know for research. But seriously, I'm sure this won't be the last time I mention this video, because I have another episode planned on what I continue to discover about an ancient symbol called the flower of life… but anyway highly recommend that video for anyone interested in the cross sections between art, science, and spirituality.   So, after watching The Sacred Geometry video I started to see more connections in my own life. I started to see waves, valleys and mountains, in everything. In my own cycles, whether we're talking mood or menstrual, in how history repeats itself, in the weather, the seasons, in the way a tree bursts into life in the spring and goes dormant after the fall, in the way hibernating animals eat for months, and then sleep for months, and in the way migrating animals go to and fro in the air and across oceans. The way the sun feels and looks in summer and how the light is just so different in winter. And all of these cycles are connected.   Like how the moon affects the tides. Like how an ocean wave is both an individual and part of the whole; ebbing and flowing, coming and going, flickering into and out of existence.   Which reminds me: ever hear of the double slit experiment? I'll link to a more detailed explanation of this scientific study, but to quickly sum up the experiment: photons, the smallest possible bits of light, are sent through two slits. And the pattern of light cast on the other side would vary between two results: either the light would act as particles and shine straight through, casting light that mirrored the two slits, or the light would act wavelike and create an interference pattern on the other side.   But here's the groundbreaking part: this study, repeated many, many times, found that the photons only acted as particles while they were being observed by someone, otherwise the resulting light reverted back to the interference pattern created by waves. The conclusion: consciousness literally warps reality on a physical level. So basically light particles don't even exist unless someone is looking at them. By the simple act of observation, we are actually willing matter into existence. I hope that makes sense, but I know for me it's taken many different rounds of explaining, from various sources, for me to fully comprehend this. So please check out the links in the show notes to get a more in depth scientific explanation with visual aides, which is essential for me to understand anything lol. Must be an artist thing huh? “Light is both a wave and a particle, and neither. Until we make an observation, the photon exists in a state of uncertainty, governed by laws of probability. And when we do observe it, it becomes something completely different.” – Neil DeGrasse Tyson on that show referenced above.   Here's another interesting connection I've found between frequency and matter. In high school chemistry, I remember being fascinated when I learned how scientists have determined what distant planets and stars are made of. Do you remember how? Well it turns out that every element on the periodic table has its own unique light signature, a unique frequency pattern. The technical term for this method of identifying the chemical makeup of distant celestial bodies is called spectroscopy. This is just more scientific proof that solidifies the idea that everything is frequency for me.   Now let's dig deeper into what frequency, what a wave, has to do with how we experience our every day lives.   Imagine a gently sloping roller coaster, let's say it's a kid's coaster with perfectly balanced hills and valleys oscillating between one another. Let's say that when we're at the peak of each little hill we're experiencing a euphoric kind of joy, and when we're in the dip of the valley we're deeply depressed. Now imagine I go up to the roller coaster operator and say, I want to take a ride, but can you make sure I only coast along the top, I would rather not suffer through the pits. Most likely the moody teenager behind the joystick would give me a confused, if not weirded out look, and if she determined I was serious she'd probably snap her gum and be like, “umm no, you gotta ride the whole ride or not ride it at all.”   Our reality is dualistic in nature. Light and dark. Up and down. Cold and hot. Joy and pain. One extreme cannot be experienced without the contrast of the other, and one extreme cannot be fully appreciated without the contrast of the other either, for that matter.   For some reason there is a stigma against suffering in our society. And I did not escape this belief system. Not at first. When I started meditating, in fact, my intention was to find happiness and block pain. Had I known what I was asking of the universe back then I would have laughed at myself. Because I know now that happiness can only be found inside of me, and the same goes for all of my pain and suffering too. Up is only a direction until we give it meaning, until our cultural programming teaches us that feeling up is good, that having more is better. Those same nurtured ideas kick into gear when we think of what it is to feel down, when we automatically assume that having less is bad.   What I'm learning more and more each day is that my suffering is most often just a story I'm telling myself. And though I'm also learning that I am responsible for it all… all the good and all the bad in my life, at the same time I've even begun to get comfortable with the suffering that seems like it's out of my control. Suffering is what has pushed me to create some of my best work, pushed me to be the best version of me I could possibly be… in any given moment that I'm able to actually pull my head out of my ass and realize this.   It's a learning process, and I'm not saying I'm awesome at dealing with pain and suffering, but I'm getting better at letting it be rather than trying to block it.   If we could just ride the tracks of our lives like a roller coaster, full speed ahead down the steepest slopes, the momentum would take us right through the dip and rocket us back in an upward trajectory, onto the next mountaintop. But instead, we see that we're at the top of a scary hill and we put the brakes on, causing so much friction and resistance that by the time we inevitably come to the low point, we're forced to wallow there until we can find the energy to start crawling back up.   If you're anything like me, maybe you might ask: Well why the highs and lows? You might say, as I did: Why can't I just coast through life? I don't have to be deliriously happy, I just don't want to feel so much pain anymore.   And that's when it hit me, I saw the wave in my mind's eye, I mentally marked where I wanted to be on the slope of my life, placing an X right smack in the middle, between the highest highs and lowest lows, a neutral zone where I could be… content. I quickly pulled my notebook toward me and drew a wave across the page. I Xed each neutral position across the waveform. Connecting all the dots I drew a flat line. A flat line. All this time, I thought I had simply been asking the universe for a safe space to live, but by creating a permanent comfort zone for myself, what I was really doing, was flat-lining. And come to think of it, any constant state of being is flat-lining, even trying to stay in the comfort zone of “happy” as so many of us are trying to do.   One of the only truths I've been able to find in my life, that hasn't somehow evolved into some other truth, is this: nothing ever stays the same. I can confirm this as a photographer who has spent far too much time trying to reshoot the almost perfect photo – the wind blows the flower around, I can't get back in the same spot, the light changes every second, I look up and see two pigs kissing in the clouds, but by the time I decide to give up on the flower and I raise my camera to focus, it's become a dragon soaring across the sky.   What is right now, is constantly changing, and to not accept all of what is right now, no matter where you are on the wave is what causes the most suffering. When you let go of trying to steer, well that's when the ride starts to get fun.   If we're too afraid to dive into the next dip, we'll never discover what's at the top of the next hill… and the more momentum we have going down, the higher we can rise on the other side. Fall, and fail, fast. It's not just good business advice. It's life advice. Learn from your suffering, power through it and move on. The key isn't to avoid suffering, it's to take all that inevitable pain and transmute it, turn it into art.   When you stand in the light you still cast a shadow. And when you're deep in the shadows, know that inside you there still burns a light. There's a whole spectrum of possibilities between the two, and a whole lotta wave left to ride.   Now the frequency of any given wave, is another thing I'd like to touch upon, because there seems to be a lot of bias out there about how humans are supposed to vibrate. There are many spiritual teachers who try to teach us the difference between right and wrong, good and bad… and for so long it has felt like I've been running along the fence line that divides the moral and immoral, hopping it whenever the landscape looked prettier on the other side. That's all any of us do really; the best that we can do, in any given moment.   I've heard the terms high vibe and low vibe thrown around a lot in spiritual circles. And while I'm not opposed to seeking self “betterment” in any way, I'm starting to realize that to label the vibration we're in, the wave we're riding, to proverbially stamp it on the forehead with a good or bad is to limit the potential of what it could be. It's basically like cockblocking the universe by labeling it.   It's early August as I've been writing this essay, and we have a bush we've let go wild for the past couple of years. Just outside the sliding glass doors into our backyard, I can find at least a dozen pollinators buzzing and fluttering around this magickal bush. Orange and black monarchs are always around, did you know that Monarch butterflies migrate from Canada all the way to Mexico?! Flying along with them are a couple of different black and yellow beauties, some white moths, and one black butterfly with blue undertones I'd never seen before. There are always bumble bees clinging to the gnome-hat-shaped bunches of flowers, and even an occasional humming bird comes along if you can catch them before they dart off again.   Fun fact about hummingbirds, their metabolism is so high that they have to consume 50 percent of their body weight every day just to maintain themselves. In North America hummingbirds wings flap at an average rate of 53 beats per second, and one species, the Amethyst Woodstar has a wing flap rate that clocks in at 80 beats per second! Compared to the butterfly's flutter, which has a wing flap rate I could probably count by sight, the humming bird is flying and literally living in a much faster (or higher) frequency. That doesn't make the humming bird any better than the butterfly, it might make them seem a bit more ethereal, their wings like a ghost the human eye can barely perceive. But how can we compare them to a metamorphic creature like a butterfly? A caterpillar that disintegrates into a cocoon full of goo, and somehow reforms itself into a being with wings. There is no comparison, only a different kind of beauty.   Riding the wave is similar. The only reason we struggle is because of the story we tell ourselves, the labels we put on events in our lives, the boxes we walk around in. Come out of the box with wings, and beat them to your own frequency. You set the pace. It's your wave.     [Conclusion:]   Thank you all so much for listening.   I used what I think is the coolest looking photograph out of the batch I shot as our cover for today, but I actually have four more photos posted on my website, including the ohhhmmm photo, link in the show notes if you want to check them out. I'm sure I have notes somewhere as to which photos were created from what sounds I was making, so I'll include that info in the captions if I can too.   Well that's a wrap, friends, I'll let you get back to your wave now. I hope you all are having a fun ride!

Today I have a special treat for you... I'm sure it's no surprise if you read the title before you hit play, but this is a bonus episode I felt compelled to share with you. Today we're coloring outside the usual Art Ink lines. Some of you might know that I've been working on a massive list of creative writing prompts specifically geared towards artists…     [If your podcast app isn't showing the featured art for this episode above visit https://rebekahnemethy.com/artink24 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Get your free copy of 100 Creative Writing Prompts for Artists Who Blog by subscribing to my newsletter.   OR   Support me on Patreon to get instant access to the 100 prompts AND a whole library of digital goodies available exclusively to Patrons!   You'll also get instant access to:   Patron only Art Library – 600+ photos strong of abstract photography, floral photography, and nature photography that you can use for whatever you want – plus new photos added semi-regularly   The Artsy Reflections audiobook – a recording of the 1st 100 tiny 100-word stories, plus my uncensored, and sometimes super-weird, retrospective commentary   Outtakes reel – a hilarious compilation of the flubs I made on my first few audiobooks   First dibbs on select free audiobooks I narrate as soon as they're released   Random number generator   Random word generator   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs     Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Welcome back to a brand new episode of Art Ink, my friends. Today I have a special treat for you... I'm sure it's no surprise if you read the title before you hit play, but this is a bonus episode I felt compelled to share with you. Today we're coloring outside the usual Art Ink lines.   Some of you might know that I've been working on a massive list of creative writing prompts specifically geared towards artists. Well, honestly the list writing has been over for a while now, but a couple of weekends ago, I got the overwhelming impulse to put together a pretty PDF for you to download.   I spent hours embellishing this ebook on Canva, but that was because I was having so much fun, I ended up spending the entire weekend on it.   I know that many of you listening to this show are artists yourselves… and lemme tell you, finding artists who want to write about their own work has been like trying to pull a 20-year-old tree out of the ground with my bare hands. Now that could be more of a me problem, I admit, but I think there's also an overarching fear surrounding writing that invokes flashbacks of high school horrors best forgotten.   But I want to change that. And if you're listening to this episode you can be that change! I want to empower you to share your story, to share your art's story, because I know that telling your story will help you to make life long connections with the people who get to experience it.   If you've ever said “but I don't know what to write about,” you are not alone. I used to say that all the time. And I just know that today's episode is going give you plenty of ideas to get started on.   And with that, I think it's time to dig into a big, juicy sampling to get your writing taste buds tingling.   Shall we?     20 Creative Writing Prompts for Artists   What emotion did you feel most strongly while you were creating the piece you're writing about? Now tell us about your favorite memory of that emotion.   Write about your first experience of working in your medium from the perspective of your tools or material. You are blue paint, you are your favorite camera lens, you are two knitting needles working together for the first time. Go!   Write from the perspective of your art on display when she overhears a conversation about her from two of your guests. (Alternate option: record yourself criticizing the piece, listen to it, then write your art's reaction).   Roll a die, add two zeros to the end of your result; that's your word count. Write your stream of consciousness about your art piece for that many words. (Bonus Idea: Set a timer to limit how much time you have. No dawdling! If you think it write it!)   Imagine you are an alien archaeologist from 2000 years in the future pulling your art out of a time capsule discovered in space... your art is the only thing inside. Describe it to your alien friends.   Write 3 haikus about your art that tell a complete story. (haiku 1: beginning, haiku 2: middle, haiku 3: the end)   Describe a mistake you've made in your art practice that led to a happy accident, a new technique, or a change in your perspective as an artist. Bonus points if you publicly show the mistake in your work in addition to writing about it.   Google the name of the main color in your art, go to Images, select an image that calls to you and connect your artwork to it in 100 words or less. Connecting seemingly random things is a great writing practice to develop, and it's easier than you think. Bonus points if you look up a two-word color like pale green or pastel purple.   Roll a die or two. Begin your story with that number. Is it an address, how old you are (or how old your character is), or could it be the amount of money you have to buy a new art supply? Go with your gut, don't hesitate, just start writing! You can also use a random number generator like the one at https://www.random.org/.   If your art were a sound effect what would it be? A blaring horn in NYC traffic? Chirping crickets? A sneeze? Maybe it's a doorbell or the ringtone when your mom calls. Write 100 words incorporating this sound into your story.   Imagine your art could share a message or express a little known truth telepathically with every person who laid eyes on it. What would that message be in 10 words or less? That's your title. Why is that the message you chose? That's your story.   List the first 6 adjectives that come to mind when you look at your piece. (let use yellow, rocky, surreal, misty, playful, and bright for instance). Now use those words to write the first paragraph of your story. Her yellow hair was bright, and playfully whipped around in the wind as she strolled along the rocky shore. The sunrise has just barely burned off the morning mist, giving the landscape a dreamy surreal quality. There you go… I did that in under a minute and you can too. And I had to make up the piece of art those words came from, so it should be even easier for you!   Give your art a spirit animal. Why did you choose that particular animal. Describe the similarities and/or differences between your art and the chosen animal.   You're being sent to an all expenses paid art retreat for one year, but you can only bring 6 things with you (when it comes to art supplies that is; assume clothing, hygiene, and food items are all taken care of).   Record yourself rambling about your art for a full minute and then listen to what you said. Transcribe it. Whoop dere it is!   What if your art were like the wall of schnozberries in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory? What would it taste like? Take your reader back to the most memorable time you last ate that food.   Making connections is a skill that takes practice. Head over to a random word generator (https://randomwordgenerator.com/) and use the first word that pops up in a story that ties into your artwork. It doesn't have to be a true story, get creative and make it all up.   Take a silly online quiz from the perspective of the piece you want to write about. You know the kind I'm talking about right? What Disney Princess are you? What kind of cupcake are you? Write your art's response to the results.   Imagine that your work caused something unspeakable to happen. What's the worst thing you can think of? Yeah, that happened. You have the opportunity to change it, but you'd have to choose to change the past, to have never created the piece that started the ripple effect... it's your best work, so good it may bring you fame and fortune, and no one actually knows your creation sparked something horrible... would you give that all up to prevent the unspeakable from happening? Why or why not?   Imagine your creativity is an invisible being who dictates all that you create. Who is it? A ghost? A goddess? An angel? Your astral projecting ex-partner who's playing a trick on you? Write about this being's motivation for guiding you to create your latest project.     [Conclusion:]   So that was just a randomly chosen sampling of the first 20 prompts that called to me as I was putting this episode together, but there's a shit-ton more inspiration where that came from! Just visit rebekahnemethy.com/100-creative-writing-prompts-for-artists to download the whole eBook for free. You'll get 80 more prompts, a quick tips guide on how to get the most out of your experience with them, AND I've also included a bonus template to give your story ideas some structure.   If, however, you found this valuable and you would like to make a contribution to support Art Ink on Patreon, you can also access those 100 prompts over there, as well as countless other digital goodies I've put out over the years.   Off the top of my head, all Patrons get instant access to:   Patron only Art Library – 600+ photos strong of abstract photography, floral photography, and nature photography that you can use for whatever you want – plus new photos added semi-regularly   The Artsy Reflections audiobook – a recording of the 1st 100 tiny 100-word stories, plus my uncensored, and sometimes super-weird, retrospective commentary   Outtakes reel – a hilarious compilation of the flubs I made on my first few audiobooks   First dibbs on select free audiobooks I narrate as soon as they're released   Oh yeah, and duh, you, as an Art Ink listener might be interested in this: Patrons get new episodes of Art Ink 2 days before everyone else!   Visit rebekahnemethy.com/patreon to show your support and get the goods.   So, yeah, there's lots of exclusive content on Patreon starting at as little as $1 per month. And yeah, you get ALL digital goodies for that low price and that's actually brand new. It used to be that what you got as a reward depended upon how much money you donated. Now, as far as the content that's in the library, it started to seem silly for me to withhold it from anyone. After all, it's completed. It doesn't take me any more of an effort to give it to you.   And I should probably mention that the mega prompt book I created is just the beginning of what I have planned. I'm working on a batch of story templates to put out next – and those will only be available on Patreon.   Anyway, whether you decide to download the free 100 Prompts PDF or have some extra change to spread around, what matters most is that you get your creative juices flowing and start writing about your creations.   And then, drop me a line, you all know I'm always looking for more submissions. Hint, hint.   Make sure to dig into the show notes if you're looking for links for all that! Ok, with that my friends, I'm out. I'll catch ya on the next one!

I am the epitome of a believer – I was born believing in aliens. And the more I've learned about space, the more I've realized that the probability that we could ever possibly be alone in this universe is practically nonexistent it's so slim. After having some strange experiences in 2019…     [If your podcast app isn't showing the featured art for this episode above visit https://rebekahnemethy.com/artink23 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]   Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Joshua Fox Title of Art: TM (3 of 4) Instagram: @jfox720   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs     Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   I am the epitome of a believer – I was born believing in aliens. And the more I've learned about space, the more I've realized that the probability that we could ever possibly be alone in this universe is practically nonexistent it's so slim.   After having some strange experiences in 2019, I took a deeper dive into all things extraterrestrial, I listened to abductees tell their stories, I watched chilling UFO documentaries, I sat enraptured as several whistleblowers spoke of their experiences in top secret government programs. All I can say is that either this shit is real, or I have some serious imagination envy because you gotta be real creative to tell those kinds of stories… and I also realize that, in many instances, truth is stranger than fiction. So for me, the weirder it sounds, the more likely I am to believe it.   So while the following story is a fictional account, it is the amalgamation of many seeds of truth, all planted together just to see what could grow. I guess that's what all fiction really is at its core, though, huh?   But before we dig into today's story, let's set the scene with our featured cover art!   [Art Description:]   Joshua Fox is our artist of the hour. His black and white Sharpie art often features UFO and alien themes, along with the most soothingly geometric shapes and patterns. The piece I chose for today's cover art is no different.   A saucer shaped craft hovers in the night sky among the stars, a few gaseous-looking planets, and wispy, swirling clouds. Also present in the pitch black sky are a couple of mandalas. The smaller mandala is half cut off at the top of the page, and it features a daisy-like flower at its center, with hourglass shapes stretching out past its dyad shaped petals, which is all resting atop a base of concentric circles rippling beneath them. The other larger and more prominent mandala takes up the top right quadrant of the page and much of the sky. Five concentric circles ripple out from the center, and these are surrounded by four overlapping triangles that create a 12-pointed star all together. Inside each of the twelve triangular-shaped points is a circle, and in between each of the points are two more overlapping circles, one much larger than the other.   Below the spacecraft is a beam of light made up of three separate lines of progressively larger white circles. The light is beaming down upon what looks like the surface of a mountain. But from our perspective it's as if we're seeing the cross-section of that mountain, and within it seems to be what I interpret as an underground base of sorts. There are five, mostly horizontal, levels all filled with patterns made up of unique combinations of black lines and circles. The patterns are reminiscent of mazes, computer chips and mother boards. In the center-most hallway of this underground base is an alien face, with no other feature other than its prominent black eyes, and stretching behind its floating head is a strand of DNA.   While much of the piece is a high contrast solid black and solid white, Joshua uses pointillism to shade some areas, like in the whimsical clouds and in the planets.   You have to check this one out when you get a chance, my friends, and most of you should be able to view the cover art of this episode right in your podcast app of choice. If not make sure to look at the show description to see a link to where you can see the art I'm describing. You can also check out more of Josh's work on Instagram @jfox720.   And now, onto the story that has haunted me for far too long now… I hope it doesn't haunt you… too much… which reminds me, listener beware, this episode contains allusions to sexual abuse and self harm. I did my best to avoid being overly graphic, but if these are triggering topics for you, you might want to skip this one.   If not, well then, enjoy the show my friends. I call this one Milked.     [Story:]   The sickening sound of suction woke Thea from blissful sleep. The pump was about 12 feet away, 3 cells down the line, and 60 minutes from latching onto her– from sucking some more of her life away from her... at least that's what it felt like.   It was the worst part of her day, 12 times a day… every. day. But it was hardly the worst thing about her stay here.   Thea snorted at the thought: her stay. Like it was some kind of vacation home or resort. The square cell was a 4-foot wide prison— a torture chamber. And Thea was nothing but a captive slave. But the daily torture was nothing compared to what happened at least once per year. The insemination was when she came face to face with them. Those things that had taken her. That was when she was violated… humiliated… by more than just machines.   How long had it been, again? Thea answered her own question with a glance down at the crescent-shaped markings on her forearm, carved in rows and rows– grouped by fives. “5, 10, 15, 20…” Thea started.   The counting had become a kind of morning routine for her. Something to do to keep a firm grasp on her sanity as it was being tugged away from her, day by day; as firm a grasp as she could keep anyway. “350,” Thea said as she counted the last bundle. Only a couple of weeks away from the one-year mark. One year from when she'd had her newborn baby boy ripped from her body. She'd never even gotten to hold him. And now he was nearly a year old.   Where was he? Were they taking good care of him? Was he walking yet? Talking? What would his first word be? Who was taking care of him? Would he call them mama… papa?   They weren't new questions. He was the only reason she was still alive, still clinging to life… to the hope that maybe one day she'd get out of there… escape with him.   She breathed in deeply, imagined the joy she'd feel when she had his warm little body in her arms again. What it would feel like when they were finally safe and free.   The last time she'd seen him he'd been blue; so blue that Thea had at first feared he'd been stillborn. But then he'd opened that miniscule mouth of his and let out the strongest cry a baby could possibly belt out. Surely.   She didn't name this one. He was simply baby 6; the strong one. And despite the hope her heart wouldn't let go of, Thea knew he was gone and it was very unlikely that she'd ever see him again. Or any of the others for that matter. Ashley, her firstborn, would be almost 5. Thea tried to imagine her… the details were fuzzy, but she could practically hear her giggling as she ran around with her younger brothers. The ones who could run, anyway. She imagined the younger two would still be crawling.   The sucking stopped and a mechanical whirring signaled the pump's movement another cell closer, breaking Thea out of her reverie. A few seconds later a sickening slurp sounded out alongside a resigned sigh.   In the beginning it'd been hard to account for time. It wasn't like there was a clock in her cage. And back in the early days she was more focused on escape than in entertaining herself. It wasn't that Thea had given up on her escape… she was just… temporarily out of ideas.   And in the interim she'd gotten good at counting. It'd become a mathematical meditation: counting seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months… years. It had been years since she'd been a free woman. Since she'd lived in a space large enough to accommodate her outstretched arms, which she could just barely do here if she twisted to reach from corner to corner instead of wall to wall.   Thea had always been aware of the days passing, the bluish light came on before the first pumping each day, and disappeared into the blackest night imaginable just after the last pump moved on, but the days had blended together into an infinite loop of torture. And Thea wasn't sure which kind of torture was worse, what the machines and those little gray bastards did to her, or what she did to herself within her very own mind.   The only thing she knew for sure was that she was a slave, though why she was a slave was what kept Thea's imagination churning out the most horrifying answers to her endless list of questions.   What happened to the babies? What did they do with the milk?   Why me? Why me? Why me? on repeat. And sometimes a why us? When someone new broke the silence, reminding Thea that though she felt alone, she was not– a fresh strong voice would be spewing out the same old insults, demanding desperately to be told the answers to the same old questions… Thea counted the time it took for each of them to stop trying, waiting for the next record breaker to arrive, giving her another brief spark of hope to cling too. The question was never if, though, it was only when. They all gave into silence eventually. Crying out only interrupted the one pastime they all had in common: dreaming.   It was only when Thea was asleep that she could escape the endless loop of her brain's fabrications. If allowed to wander around awake, her brain came up with stories like:   Baby brains as a delicacy on an alien menu. Or mudslides made with breast milk.   It was a ridiculous thought, those stoic, wide-eyed creatures kicking back and having a good time. They wouldn't know a good time if it ran them over 3 times and backslapped them into yesterday. Seeing them at a bar was such a stretch that the thought looked distinctly like a cartoon in Thea's mind; she'd never seen even one of them stretch their tiny, lipless mouths into anything close to resembling a smile.   But the hybrid children were what she imagined most, they were the most unwelcome visitors, interrupting her fleeting good dreams, and haunting her well past waking. Children genetically engineered to be amphibious, or to fly, or worst of all to be some strange combination of humans and grays; children with big bulbous heads and enormous, glossy black eyes, blinking slowly at her, tilting their heads at her as if they were dogs hearing a strange, unknown sound.   Thea wondered if all of those dreams were just dreams. Some of the children she'd seen behind her closed eyelids bore a striking resemblance to photos she'd seen of herself as a young girl.   The memories of life before were so faded now. She'd outplayed them. But when she was dreaming? That's when Thea could feel the memories again. When she could almost convince herself she was actually there. The other night, Thea had felt the sunshine on her skin. She'd bitten into a plum and could taste the decadent pairing of sweet and tangy on her tongue. She could feel the juice dripping from both corners of her mouth. As she'd chewed she'd swiped at her face with a finger and pressed the purple droplets against her tongue, the saltiness of her skin biting into the other flavors. God, she missed real food. The beige oval pellets they fed her here were dry and bland. They did nothing but keep her alive.   The mechanical pumping sounds halted and the whirring and clanking that signaled its movement to the next cell began. Now the pump was only one cell over from Thea. She was next.   “Thea.” It seemed to be coming from the cell next door, opposite the approaching pump. Thea squatted down, pressing her face as close to the foul-smelling grate in the floor as she could, forcing herself to breathe through her mouth when she caught a whiff.   “Jamie, is that you?” Thea whisper-yelled at the floor. Luckily the machine next door would cover up most of what she said.   “No. But there's no need to yell. Try answering me in your mind.”   “What in the world?” Thea thought, but she didn't realize she'd thought anything until the words were repeated back to her, in someone else's voice!?   “What in the world indeed.” The voice that infiltrated Thea's mind was feminine and flourished with an English accent. She sounded young.   “Who are you?”   “I am… someone you can trust, but unfortunately we don't have time for introductions. The Rotolactor is on its way to you, and I need you to follow my instructions very carefully if this is to work.”   “If what's going to work?”   “Your escape.”   Escape? Was it possible? Could this really be the day after five long years of hell? But the excitement Thea felt at the prospect was suddenly overshadowed by a dark realization: what about her babies?   “I can't leave without finding my babies first.”   “Your daughter will be with us, I assure you.”   A spark of hope lit up Thea's heart with warmth. “What about my boys?”   “I'm afraid all males are immediately rejected at birth… your sons were lost long ago… I'm so sorry.”   Bittersweet was a euphemism for the rapid twist she felt wrenching her heart at that moment. “All five of them?”   “I'm afraid so m-Thea.”   Thea let out a feral sob as she slid down the wall and onto the cold stone floor. She hugged her knees to her chest, feeling as helpless as a fetus herself.   The girl in her head gave her a moment of silence until the life-sucking contraption unlatched from its latest victim and whirred into action again.   “We must act quickly lest we miss this opportunity.”   Thea sprung up from the floor, ready for action. She may have failed to protect her boys, but she still had one child left to protect. Though her face was still drenched in tears she pushed her self-pity and guilt back behind her instinct to survive. “What do I have to do?”   “Get into position as usual…”   Thea moved to place her feet on the well-worn markers and pressed her back into the wall to steady herself. Her body was buzzing with adrenaline.   “When the Rotolactor latches onto you, you must disconnect a very specific tube. It's programmed to self repair most problems, so this will only work if you cause it to malfunction in a way that won't allow it to self correct. I'll describe exactly how to do this once you're hooked up.”   “Ok,” Thea thought resolutely as the machine approached the front of her cell.   Everything was happening so fast, and part of Thea wondered if she was finally losing her shit. And though the hopeful part of her wanted to believe what this strange voice in her head was telling her, she'd already attempted to disable this machine dozens of times without success, she was sure every woman in this wing had.   “Ok, it's latched,” Thea thought urgently, and in the brief silence that followed she began to think she really had imagined the voice up.   But not a second later the posh voice filled her head again, and Thea let out a sigh of relief. The girl instructed her to pull at several strategic tubes and wires, and when the self-repair arm was extended she detached one more wire before she felt the suction finally release her breasts. The machine went still and silenced, and Thea pressed her back against the wall to slide herself out of the machine's imposing reach.   She squeezed around the life-sucking behemoth through the small gap between it and the open door. Her heart thudded with excitement and fear as peeked through the doorway. Seeing the infinitely long hallway was clear in both directions, Thea darted outside her room for the first time in 5 years. Even that one step into freedom felt exhilarating.   “You have only minutes to do exactly as I say or else you will be caught.”   But Thea was already on her own mission, though, her hands running up and down the smooth surface of the doorway next to hers. She was looking for the proverbial doorknob and she wasn't having any luck. “How do I open these doors?”   “Your door should already be open,” there was a hint of panic in the voice.   “Not my door, I'm out, but I have to let the others out.”   “Did you not hear wh—”   “Jamie! I'm here,” Thea whisper shouted, “I'm gonna get you outta there.”   “We don't have the time for—”   “I'm not leaving without Jamie, so if we're short on time, maybe you should tell me how to open these fucking doors instead of arguing with me.”   “Look at your door…” the voice gave in, “there should be a half-sphere there…”   Thea was already on it, tugging and twisting to remove it to no avail. “How. The fuck. do I—” Thea grunted out as she struggled.   “Push on it and hold until it releases.”   It finally came free, and Thea juggled it, caught it and rushed back over to the next cell, pushing the circular key onto what she hoped was Jaime's door. As soon as it was attached the door automatically opened. A girl looked up from her seat on the floor with wide, strikingly blue eyes that were in sharp contrast to her dark chocolate skin.   “Jamie?” Thea whispered, for she'd only ever heard the girl's voice in their late night conversations through the grates.   The girl shook her head rapidly with a furrowed brow and clutched her naked knees closer to her body.   “Well what's your name then?”   “Ashana.” she rasped.   “Well Ashana,” Thea reached her hand through the open doorway, but only because she couldn't bring herself to step in, too afraid of getting trapped inside again herself, “what do you say we get the hell outta here?”   Ashana was shaking in fear, and when she stood Thea could now see the baby bump she'd been hiding. Their captors didn't allow them the decency of clothing, and Thea suddenly became aware of her own nakedness as Ashana crossed her arms over her bountiful chest. Thea dropped her arm awkwardly and turned away to remove the round key from the door.   Then she rushed over to the cell on the other side of her own, thinking Jamie must surely be in there. But the pale looking girl on the other side of that door wasn't Jaime either. Her stringy black hair barely moved as she shook her head.   “I've created a diversion,” the voice was back, sounding breathless, “but really you need to make your way out of that corridor or I will no longer be able to help you.”   “And you're sure you have my baby? My daughter?” Thea thought. She was already silently asking Jamie for forgiveness in her heart, but if this woman was telling the truth, Thea chose her baby. It wasn't a choice so much as an instinct; a driving need.   “I'm positive.”   “Which way?”   “Go right.”   “Come on,” Thea called aloud to the two women behind her, and as she made her way past Ashana's open doorway, she slammed the key onto the next cell door and sprinted away as it opened.   She ran as fast as she could for what felt like several minutes until she finally came to the end of the long, metallic hallway. “Now where? Left or right?” She looked back over her shoulder as she waited for an answer, and was shocked to see a mob of naked women in the distance behind her. It looked like Ashana had stayed behind to open more doors. Thea had lost the stringy haired girl too. She was alone.   Should she go back for them? But she didn't have time to contemplate that decision. Not if she wanted the best shot to make an escape with her one remaining child.   “Left, quickly.”   Thea took off at a run.   “Go down the next corridor that opens up on the left, then take a quick right.”   “This is a dead end,” Thea panted aloud out of habit, forgetting for a moment that speaking was dangerous and unnecessary right now. She was in a small, square room about double the size of her cage. Only a single light illuminated the center of the room in a cone-shaped beam that reminded her of movie depictions of inquisition-style trials and pleas of innocence.   “Step into the light.”   “What? Why?” Was this lady for real?   “Yes, I am, in fact, for real… now please, if you would?”   Thea stepped into the light tentatively.   “Now I recommend you close your eyes.”   Thea squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She felt her body start to buzz, as if a luke-warm jolt of electricity had overcome her from the inside out. Then it was suddenly as if her entire body had fallen asleep and was now coming alive with pins and needles.   “You can open them now.” The voice sounded different, though… as if it was no longer in her head anymore, but coming from right in front of her.   Thea opened her eyes to her own reflection. That's strange, she hadn't seen any mirrors when she'd first walked in here… but… wait… is that what she looked like now, somehow… younger? And with… bigger eyes? But then the eyes in the mirror blinked when Thea hadn't. And as Thea's gaze traveled downwards it was the clothing that finally solidified it; this was her bittersweet nightmare come true.   “Hello,” the girl said, and it was the voice that'd led Thea to freedom that came out of the girl's mouth.   “Who… are you?” But before Thea even finished the sentence, she already knew, and without waiting for an answer she embraced the young woman in front of her, which wasn't a reflection at all, but somehow her full-grown daughter.   “Mother,” she whispered on a sigh.   Thea pulled back to explore her face. “Ashley, is it really you?”   “Ashley?” she repeated.   “That's what I called you before… before they took you away.”   “I like that.” Ashley's double-sized hazel eyes grew shiny, full of heartfelt tears she managed to hold back.   “How are you so big?” Thea asked, looking the girl up and down again. “You're only five.”   Ashely blinked the wetness away and seriousness swept over the sentiment on her face. “Your body has been in cryo for the past 21 years. We must leave. Now.”   “Wait, cryo? As in I've been frozen? I don't remember being frozen. And… what about the others?” Thea looked behind her towards the door she'd entered just a moment ago, but it wasn't there. And as she quickly scanned the room around her she realized it had somehow grown much bigger, and was full of unfamiliar equipment, like a lab or a hospital might have back home. “Where are we? I could've sworn this room was smaller, and empty.”   “I've brought you here via the telebeam,” she pointed up towards the source of the bright light Thea was standing in, which was the only familiar thing that had remained from before she'd closed her eyes. “You are in a different room.”   Obviously done explaining things, Ashley grabbed Thea's hand and tugged her between an aisle of small, glowing tables.   Thea followed her in a speed walking daze, trying to take all of this in, but stopped abruptly when she realized Ashley hadn't answered her. “Where are we going? What about the others?” she insisted.   “I'm afraid this rescue plan only has room for you and me, mother.” She didn't look very sorry though as she grabbed Thea's hand again, urging her to move. “Your setting the other humans free, though, that will most likely aid us in our escape. They, however, will have to make due with their own efforts to get away.”   “No, Ashley.” Thea tugged her hand out of her daughter's grasp as she stopped short again. Instead of turning around this time, however, Ashley kept on charging forward, disappearing around a corner.   “There are literally hundreds of human women aboard this vessel,” Ashley said, her voice growing louder as she reappeared again, holding a bundle of fabric, “we simply don't have the means necessary to rescue them all.”   “But what about the girls I let out, they're already halfway to freedom, we can't let those bastards capture them again, we just can't.”   “Put these on,” she said as she held the bundle out.   The soft fabric unfolded into a white tunic as Thea lifted it in the air. She pulled it over her head quickly, and watched Ashley frown in concentration as she picked up the matching pants that'd fallen to the floor.   “I don't know who any of the other women are, I'd have no way to contact them.”   “Can't you just talk into their heads like you did with me?” Thea asked as she slipped on the exquisitely silky pants.   “Not without a name or some oth—”   “Ashana.” Thea said in a rush. “The first girl I let out told me her name was Ashana.”   “Ok, I'll try.” In a blink it was as if Ashley's body went vacant as she stilled. The life, the soul, was gone from her eyes and she stared straight ahead for several seconds. When she finally blinked again, the recognition returned to her eyes as she found Thea's gaze. “There are 6 of them, we'll need more clothing.”   Thea nodded in understanding and hurried over to where she'd seen her daughter disappear before. When she returned, clutching a stack of clothing to her chest, Ashley was blinking herself out of another trance.   “We've got to return to the telebeam, quickly.” She said, and took off, Thea following closely at her heels.   In front of the beam of light, Ashley stood still, her eyes vacant again. And this time when her body came back to life, Thea watched as the cone of light rippled into, first shadows, then a pixelated mass of flesh tones, and then into actual people. A bundle of six women clutching each other materialized before her eyes, as if they were a hologram someone just turned on.   The women stood straight and separated, taking in a collective breath of fresh air as they looked around in confusion and sheepishness.   “You're safe now,” Thea said as she passed out the clothing, though she really had no idea how true that was considering Ashley had been so worried about time and Thea had continued to delay her. But she told the girls what she wanted so desperately to hear herself, and she didn't feel the least bit sorry or regretful for that. If they were going to go down now, she'd go down with pride; she'd go down knowing she'd given it her all.   But all of that fluffy, floaty confidence quickly lost its feathers when she saw the black-eyed monster that was staring them down in silence from a couple dozen feet away, and suddenly a bowling ball of fear was crashing into the pit of Thea's stomach. “Ashley!” She thought instinctively, and her daughter's head twisted, without hesitation, toward the child-sized gray being, who only blinked in response.   “Back in the light, now!” Ashley thought, and she must have sent the message to all of them, because like a flock of birds the women moved together at once.   Thea watched as the light above them began to intensify and the huddling women in front of her began to disappear. No, they weren't disappearing, they were disintegrating! Thea looked at her own arm in horror as it brightened into an almost blinding light, and then, like a bad digital photo, the pixelated pieces of her faded to black, until there seemed to be nothing left of her.   “Wha—who are all of these people, Ashley?” A deep voice called out, but it was like Thea had just come inside after spending hours in sunshine, and everything was black. Slowly the darkness began to lighten up into shapes as her eyes adjusted and the familiar wave of pins and needles began to subside. “And what were you thinking?” The voice asked incredulously, and Thea saw that the hulking shadow it was coming from was towering over the hugging mass of women, off to their right.   “Reprimand me later Rayou,” Ashley said as she pulled herself from her mother's grasp, “I had no choice, and we have more pressing concerns now.” Ashley's form marched over to, and then past, the towering Rayou, and Thea could now make out more of his features as his eyebrows rose in realization.   “You were seen.”   Ashley didn't look at him, but nodded curtly as she tapped at a keyboard along the far wall. But Thea was too far away to see what she was typing. Despite this, a cold wave of fear washed over her body as her eyes, almost fully adjusted to the warm, dim light now, began to dart around, assessing the women coming alive around her. It sounded like they weren't done running yet, they still weren't safe.   The stringy-haired girl was closest to her, and she had her arms wrapped around herself, eyes open but unfocused, her body swaying gently. Ashana was looking at her hands in awe and confusion, as if her fingers had turned into snakes, and she twisted her palms towards and away from her face. A couple of women were doubled over and heaving, and one girl was comforting them, rubbing one's back and holding the other's hair. Another girl had collapsed onto the floor and was sobbing into her hands.   Seeing this brought attention to Thea's own queasiness and she swallowed down a bit of bile. The first time she'd gone through the light she'd been fine; and she suspected keeping her eyes open through this latest trip might have something to do with her amped up disorientation. In the chaos of their escape, Ashley hadn't reminded them to shut their eyes.   The contrast of where they now stood compared to where they were just a few seconds ago was vast. This room was warm, dingy, and cluttered with unsteady looking shelves filled with books and papers and things… marvelous little knick knacks crammed into every possible space. Compared to the blue, shiny, sterile place they'd just come from, it felt good… comfortable even; despite the fact that it was obviously an unorganized mess.   A few short, sinister notes sounded from the computer, and then a rhythmic beeping followed. The screen was awash in blue light, and a digital clock counted down from 2 minutes.   “Holy shit, is this place about to blow up?” Thea thought frantically.   “No, mum, it's not,” Ashley thought back. “But we do have to get out of here. Now.”   “Mum?” Thea was taken aback – the sudden sweetness of that one, strange word resonating from her daughter's telepathic voice… it overpowered even the fear of being blown to pieces. And Thea froze.   She was frozen in love, but she was simultaneously frozen in anger. There was so much tenderness in that one word. But Thea was also overcome with frustration at the implications of it. She was so angry that she'd missed 26 years of her daughter's life – she wasn't a mum, she was a mom, and if she'd had the chance to raise her own daughter, she'd have heard that sweet word on the lips of a toddler saying it for the first time. That was something she'd imagined countless times coming from each of her lost children. Who was Ashley's ‘mum'? – who had raised her to speak like that?   “No need for any jealousy,” Ashley said wryly as she clutched Thea's arm and led her, gently but quickly, up a rickety flight of stairs.   Oh, shit, had she thought that aloud? Ashley smiled slightly in answer.   Ahead of them, the rest of the women were already heading upwards. Rayou was just behind them, carrying the sobbing woman who'd refused to get off the floor herself.   “I actually taught myself English…” Ashley continued, “I didn't speak a word until I escaped the base. I knew you were American, but I just liked the sound of British English better… it sounds so much more proper, don't you think?”   The beeping grew distant as they climbed away, and once they shut the door to the basement behind them, it disappeared completely. Ashley tapped at control panel and the door sucked at the air, seeming to snuggle deeper into the wall with a few clicks.   Rayou and Ashley watched the window to the basement in silence as the seconds ticked by. The warm orange light suddenly went blue as veins of ice grew across it. Rayou nodded and they both turned to face the flock of lost women. They were like ghosts in their white, flowy clothes; and their haunted faces just added to the effect.   “We've bought some time.” Rayou said as he gently placed the woman he was holding onto her feet. She still had tears running down her face, but she'd stopped sobbing for now. “But we still have some getting lost to do.”   He grabbed a pile of keys that jingled all the way out of the happy yellow kitchen, into the lush green of summer, and towards a detached two-car garage. Two matching SUVs were revealed as the doors rolled open; one silver and one a shimmery dark gray. He spun one of the keys off the ring and tossed it to Ashley.   Thea followed her daughter to the darker vehicle, “What did you do back there? What will happen if someone transports into that room?”   “Just a little karmic justice.” Ashley replied.   “Karmic justice?”   “That entire basement is now a cryo chamber. Whomever telebeams in will be put on pause for the next hundred years… or until someone finds them. Maybe we can send an anonymous tip to some scientists… give them the same kind of respect they gave you.”   Thea didn't like the elation her body felt in hearing those words. She didn't like it one bit. Regardless, her lips still spread into an involuntary smile.   The rest of the women divided themselves among the two vehicles, and soon, they were driving down a highway. Their sensory starved bodies were still and silent. A tear of gratitude here, a sigh of freedom there. Thea was hopeful there would be plenty of time for talking later, but for now, she just wanted to bask in the glory of this moment. If she allowed herself to think too much, to blink too much, she feared she'd wake herself right up and out of this dream.     [Conclusion:]   I feel like there are still so many places I could go with this story, but for now I've purged another nightmare… and I'd like to think I've healed myself a bit with this imaginary rescue.   If you were disturbed at all by Thea's enslavement, I'd like to level with you: there are creatures on our planet who are living strikingly similar stories right now… dairy cows cry, and cry out, when their babies are taken away from them, and pigs are escape artists who are well known to actually let out their fellow prisoners after they've freed themselves. True stories my friends.   By writing this story I was doing my best to empathize with the various species we ourselves are enslaving. To know what that might feel like as a human being helps me to see more clearly what I want support with my money and energy and what, more importantly, I do not want to support.   While I really, really hate to identify myself as a consumer, that is actually where much of my power lies. So I do my best to make every dime count, especially at the grocery store. Whatever that means for you, I hope you will do the same.   Once again I'd like to thank Joshua Fox, our featured cover artist for this story, for sharing his work with us today. Take a peek at the cover of today's episode to see the very art that inspired me throughout writing Thea's story, and I hope you'll take a minute to check out his work @jfox720 on Instagram. So much fun stuff over there!   Ok, my friends, that's a wrap! Ciao for now, mwah!

I was in a dimly lit cream and pink-tinged studio apartment with Nick and our two cats, George and Callie, when I first watched The Secret. I popped the DVD into Nick's Xbox with certain expectations… and little did I know that what I was about to learn would completely alter the way I looked at the world forever; that it would fuel a creative fire in me that still burns brightly today…     [If your podcast app isn't showing the featured art for this episode above visit https://rebekahnemethy.com/artink22 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Yours Truly Title of Art: Yahnkas Dawg aka Smokey   The Secret (At the time of recording it was streaming on Netflix or available to rent on Amazon)   Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now   Eckhart Tolle's YouTube channel     Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs     Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   I was in a dimly lit cream and pink-tinged studio apartment with Nick and our two cats, George and Callie, when I first watched The Secret. I popped the DVD into Nick's Xbox with certain expectations… and little did I know that what I was about to learn would completely alter the way I looked at the world forever; that it would fuel a creative fire in me that still burns brightly today.   If you're unfamiliar, The Secret is a documentary; a compilation of interviews of some rich and famous types who share stories about how they, essentially, wished their lives into existence with visualization and vision boards.   At the time I was only just out of college, in a couple of tons of debt and I'd decided I wanted to pursue a career that had little to do with the degree I'd graduated with. I'd recently gotten a part-time job working as a photo assistant at a magazine that shot primarily product photography, but I knew that I wanted to transition into working for myself and in that moment I wanted to focus my work on animals.   And so I committed to a brief visualization exercise, which I stacked alongside my daily meditation practice. For a minute or two I imagined what it would be like to wake up as a ‘real' full time pet photographer: I visualized packing my gear into the trunk of my silver Mazda3, which may or may not have already had a photo of my cousin's pink-bowed yorkie, Abbey, smiling across the rear windshield, along with my website and phone number. I saw myself drive to a beautiful park with grassy hills and a cluster of trees. Then as I got out of my car I greeted a puppy, a rottie puppy, I'd decided as the image sharpened in my mind's eye.   After my visualization exercise, I got up, essentially stepping back into reality, and made coffee. And then I went on with my day.   It was within a day or two, scrolling through facebook, that I came across the most adorable black & brown puppy – someone had just adopted him and I jumped at the chance to photograph him. I had zero doubt in my mind that the Universe had arranged this for me. He wasn't 100 percent rottweiler, but his coloring and face sure made him look like the dog I'd envisioned in my little daydream. And this was a sure sign that, for the first time in my life, I'd consciously created something or at least I'd consciously drawn to me, that which already existed… but like the existential chicken-egg conundrum… who really cares what came first? The magick lies in the fact that it happened.   Now full disclosure, I never was able to support myself fully with animal portraiture alone, but I got plenty of opportunities to photograph dogs, cats, and birds and I did later on become a full time photographer shooting the most boring photos imaginable… so although it never happened exactly the way I'd visualized it happening, some semblance of professional photographer and animal photographer did manifest itself in my life. Again, I have no doubts… but there were also some other things going on that I didn't recognize back then, and I've learned that that these 3 things are essential keys to the manifestation process that The Secret forgot to mention. Let's dig in shall we?     [Art Description:]   Oh and that cute little doggie on the cover of this episode? That's a rescue pup named Smokey and, yes, he is the very pup that helped me to believe that the universe is magick.     [Story:]     1) Be that ish! Be it!   Ghandi said to be the change you wish to see in the world. And you can only be anything in the present moment. He didn't say, daydream about the change you wish to see in the world… and so while I agree that meditation and visualization are powerful tools that are always available in your manifestation shed, what you are being and doing right now has an equally large impact on what kind of life you're creating. To manifest any change you want to see in your life you have to be that change. Fake it ‘til you make it. Be it until you believe it. And once you believe it, the Universe will naturally send you reflections of that belief without you even trying.   So, while I was using creative visualization to aid me in my journey, it wasn't like I was sitting in meditation and waiting for someone with a puppy to knock on my door. I was already very much taking action into seeking out clients with animal companions. So it wasn't like I didn't already walk the walk, but I was trying to tip the scales into a full time lifestyle. That's why I think this particular visualization manifested itself so quickly. I was already being a pet photographer, I was already meeting the universe halfway by taking action.   We have to find a way to be the thing we want to be in this moment. Because the past and the future don't actually exist. Everything we experience is always happening right now. It's a simple concept, but sometimes it's hard to wrap our heads around it, because modern society lends itself to overthinking. Many of us have been trained to live in the future or in the past, almost totally unconscious of what's possible right now.   I could go on for ages about how important presence has been in my spiritual journey, but if you want to learn more about how to be present, I highly recommend learning from the master: Eckhart Tolle, who literally wrote the book on The Power of Now. He has a lot of free info on YouTube too, so I'll put links to all that in the show notes for your reference.     2) Feel that ish! Feel it!!   Our emotions are made of some potent-ass energy. If you're surrounded by screaming children, or in my case squawking and barking animals, it doesn't matter how crisply you can see the swaying palm trees on the beachfront property you're trying to manifest, because most likely, your emotions are more in line with stress than relaxation.   You not only have to put your thoughts in alignment with what to create, you have to also create an environment for your body to feel that deep sense of relaxation (or whatever emotion is conducive to what it is you're trying to create). Sticking with relaxation as an example, I'd recommend getting outside in nature to feel a real breeze, but if it takes locking yourself in a tanning booth and simulating the breeze with a fan while simultaneously sniffing from a tube of sunblock… hey, I'm not judging you. Sometimes you gotta get creative to create!   You might have to channel a memory to invoke that feeling, like that time you were in Jamaica walking along the beach at sunrise, smelling the ocean air. Or maybe you can go get a massage while you visualize island life.   I will never forget the feeling I had right before my audiobook career manifested. I had just quit my 3rd job in a year with no backup plan and I'd suddenly remembered that the audiobook hobby I'd picked up over the past year was something that some people actually made a living at. I was so excited to dive into auditioning again that my body was practically buzzing. A confidence of a sort I don't often feel had overcome me, as I sat in Nick's gaming room and rattled off my sudden plans. I knew that this was something I was good at and I knew, somehow, that it was the answer to my money problem.   I honestly cannot tell you where that confidence came from, where I was getting that energy, because I wasn't consciously doing it. But now, 50 audiobooks later, I recognize that moment as the moment I became an audiobook narrator. I'm buzzing right now just thinking of it. And so now I have that memory to bring me back to confidence and excitement; an emotion, a feeling in my body I can channel to help push my visualizations and meditations to the next level of aligning myself with who and what I want to be. By becoming who and what I am in this moment.     3) Let that ish go! Let it go!!   So I understand that this seems like the exact opposite of the go-take-action message from number 1, but hear me out. There's difference between micro-managing your manifestations and pointing a compass in the general direction of your dreams. And the truth is: most of us have a lot of letting go to do.   The number one reason people struggle with conscious creation in their lives is because they have an opposing belief system that's getting in the way. Like two magnets that refuse to kiss, sometimes our manifestation goals are not in alignment with our life goals or values, and when that happens, it can seem like our efforts are fruitless.   Let's use my pet photographer daydream as an example. Ten years ago, I thought I wanted to be a pet photographer, and I took a ton of action to make that happen to the best of my ability. I did the work, but I was never able to make it a full time gig, try though I did. I went to events, I volunteered my services at several different shelters and rescues, I advertised, I was on social media nonstop. And I got some jobs out of all that effort… but it did not pay me much in money, as I so desperately desired it to. In contrast, when I practically skydived into audiobooks a few years ago with zero backup plan for money, it somehow worked with minimal effort, and now, more work comes to me organically than ever in my life, despite the fact that I do probably less than 10% of the work I did to find jobs as a pet photographer.   So, what's the difference? Well, I've come to discover my top values over the years, and numero uno on my list is Freedom. My desire to be free from traditional jobs, bosses, money, time, and I'm sure an infinitely long list of other things, is and has always been persistently pervasive in my life. Number two is being able to work alone, at my own pace, and on my own schedule… which I guess still falls under the freedom umbrella, but is clearly in contrast with having to book X-amount of clients on their time at their locations, and all weather-permitting of course.   I can also see, in retrospect, that I had a hard time accepting money for my work back then. So that could have been yet another magnetic block pushing against my manifestation goals. Another common stumbling block belief is the infamous imposter-syndrome, which I dealt a lot with while launching both of my podcasts, and most likely in my photography career as well.   Whenever I'm struggling to create something in my life, it's never because I can't create it, and it's almost always because there is an opposing narrative going on in my head. And sometimes these stories I tell myself can be nearly invisible, they're so ingrained in my day-to-day life that I don't even notice them. Like the sound of the fridge endlessly humming away.   So this last tip, letting go, is a more of a lifelong practice kinda tip than a quick-and-dirty-fix-it-all-now kinda tip.   Sit with your thoughts. Listen to your thoughts. What do you tell yourself on a daily basis? I've recently been going through the past decade's worth of journals I've written in. I'm recognizing so many patterns I've been stuck in, and recognizing them is the first step to healing them. So I definitely recommend free writing your stream of consciousness into a daily journal, or recording it into your phone if that's easier. Do this for a few days, weeks, a month, and then go back and review what you've created. Look for patterns in your narrative, and when you discover them, ask yourself if those stories are in line with what you're trying to create with your life. If they're not you'll either have to tell yourself a new story or endeavor to change the plans to vibe with what you want to create. Or, I guess you could do nothing… but that's still a choice.   It seems letting go should be an episode in and of itself, but to sum up here are two things to let go of in order to help strengthen your manifestation powers:   a) Recognize the story you're telling yourself, and then let go of the story you're telling yourself.   b) Recognize how you think it should happen, and then let go of how you think it should happen.   This goes back to the whole micromanaging the universe thing. Let's use my rottie story for an example. If I had been so hell bent on making my visualization come true exactly as I'd imagined it, I never would have gotten the adorable photo you see on the cover of today's episode. I'd seen a park and green grass in my imagination, after all, and there was not a splash of green to be had nearby the Yonker's apartment where this lucky pup found his new home. Or if I'd found out before I met him that he was actually a mutt instead of a full blooded rottweiler, perhaps I'd have turned my nose up to that facebook post and kept scrolling for the ‘real' rottie I'd envisioned.   That might seem like a silly example, but people disregard obvious signs from the universe all the time because what they see doesn't always line up perfectly with their ideas of what should be. Sadly, we tend to follow the egoic thoughts in our heads rather than the infinite knowing that's totally accessible through our hearts. Follow your heart is a cliché for a reason, my friends.   So that's why letting go is the last, and most important step to consciously creating the life you want to live. It implies you put a certain amount of trust in the universe after you send your intentions out into the ether. Trust that you have been heard and trust that, if you can let go of the details, the universe will be able send you things beyond your wildest visualizations. Your idea of perfect is nothing in comparison to what the universe can send you when you let go of any all preconceived notions you might be holding onto.   Because the truth is, all of the most magickal things happen in the unknown, outside of our comfort zone!   So to sum up, my friends, because woah, I feel like I covered a lot here and though I could've dug in even deeper, I want to stop here and let this all sink in. So here's a quick recap of those 3 things The Secret forgot to tell us.   1) Be that ish! Be present. It's the difference between knowing I am something versus wanting to be something in the future I think I'm not capable of right now. Always choose to be here and now. I am a writer versus I want to be a writer. I have plenty of money now versus I want to have plenty of money in the future. Take action to get yourself aligned with who you want to be right now.   2) Feel that ish! Feel the feels you want to feel! Make sure you are getting your physical body and your emotions in alignment with what you want. It's impossible to manifest a healthy, energy efficient body while sitting comatose on the couch for days on end eating junk food. There's no surer way to feel less sad than to force yourself to smile until you mean it. It might feel like you're faking it at first… but eventually the feeling will always flow in the direction of your reality.   3) Let that ish go! Dig deep into your story to find patterns in your thoughts. Ask yourself if these thought patterns, this autobiography you've written in your head, is helping you move forward with your dreams or pushing back against them. Common belief blockers are imposter syndrome, self-love and worthiness mindsets, or lack thereof, and fear in all of its innumerable forms. Let go of any stories that are blocking your success by rewriting the script. That includes any stories that attempt to micromanage the universe. Let go of how you think it's supposed to happen and let the universe delightfully surprise you!     [Conclusion:]   Thank you all so much for listening today. I'm really excited to finally be sharing some of the magick that's touched my life over the past decade. I do realize however that this episode might seem a bit abrupt if you don't know me personally. Then again, I had the realization recently that I may have been hiding behind fiction for a while now. Because many of the magickal concepts I inject into my short stories are things that I actually believe in and have just been too afraid to admit publicly.   There was a turning point, however, when I realized that hiding magick in a make believe world is a little bit selfish. Because the truth is, we are all constantly creating our lives with the thoughts, actions, and beliefs we surround ourselves in. Whether we create consciously or unconsciously we are the creators of our own lives. And I'm actually excited to share with you some of my own unwanted manifestations in a future episode to give you some examples of my own unconscious creations. But anyway, in my opinion, there isn't a person in my life, including myself, who couldn't benefit from some more conscious creation in their lives. And who I am to hoard that information.   So please let me know if you have any questions or comments for me. I have a list that's 3 or 4 pages long, full of magickal stories and concepts that I plan to share with you in the future, but I'd be happy to dig in deeper or better explain anything else I mentioned in this episode if anything was unclear. So please don't hesitate to reach out. I'd love to hear from you!   Alright, that's a wrap, my friends! TTFN!

Captured in the Albanian Mountains, awash in golden hour light, this magickal photograph was made where the heavens meet the earth. The foreground is filled with hourglass-shaped cobblestones, painted with long curling shadows that span the bottom third of the frame. An ornately designed wrought iron railing with an infinite pattern of circles containing eye-shaped ovals stretches alongside the cobblestones and a sheer drop off…     [If your podcast app isn't showing the featured art for this episode above visit https://rebekahnemethy.com/artink# to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Mia Dovolani Title of Art: Stairway to Heaven Artist's Website: miadovolani.com Instagram: @miadovolani   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs     Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Hello you magnificent human you. Yes, I'm talkin' tuh you! I've been sitting on this story and this art for quite awhile… as a bartender in my previous life I was trained to avoid certain topics… oh who am I kidding? I'm a trained people pleaser so I'm always afraid of what people will think of me.   I feel like I've been living my whole life in a shadow. For most of my life the shadows have been plentiful and long, like those cast by an early morning sun; easy to hide in. Now, though, my mid-life crisis is that it's noon and there isn't enough shadow left to stand in let alone live in… if my life goes according to metaphor the shadows will lengthen once again, eventually, but right now the urge I have to share new kinds of stories with you is strong and it seems impossible not to at least inch a toe into the sunshine… and so that's what I'm doing here.   But first, let's talk about the art that pushed me out of my writing comfort zone and into, yup—I'm saying it, writing heaven. My dear friend Mia Dovolani is our featured artist for today, and she's my millennial role model. She's not just an artist through her photography, her life is art, photography is just the medium she uses to capture it.   I had the pleasure of working with Mia for a couple of years in my photographer days, and there was an energy she brought to the studio that charged me. I don't know if it was just the bubbliness of youth, but Mia seemed to savor life experiences in a way that allowed me to vicariously bubble over like a shook champagne bottle right along with her.   Whether she was talking about food or family or travel or dogs, this girl could even get me more amped up than I've ever been about weddings – only Albanian ones though (and anyone who knows me knows just how miraculous this actually is). Mia drinks in life like a fine cup of espresso, and a sip of life seems to charge her every photograph with authenticity.   Whether I'm looking at a cobblestone street in Macedonia, or one of Mia's serenely seductive self-portraits, I love how she sees the world and I love how she sees herself.   As I write this, I honestly can't say what's on Mia's Instagram feed these days, as I've been absent from social media for awhile… but even a couple of years ago when I asked her if I could feature this photo, she shrugged and might have even grimaced a bit, saying “you really like my old work huh.” And, I don't doubt her work has further evolved… so make sure you check Mia's Instagram @miadovolani to see what her camera's been clicking around lately.   For now though, let's dig into Mia's photo, Stairway to Heaven:     [Art Description:]   Captured in the Albanian Mountains, awash in golden hour light, this magickal photograph was made where the heavens meet the earth.   The foreground is filled with hourglass-shaped cobblestones, painted with long curling shadows that span the bottom third of the frame. An ornately designed wrought iron railing with an infinite pattern of circles containing eye-shaped ovals stretches alongside the cobblestones and a sheer drop off on the left side of the frame.   Five black lampposts are staggered along the fence line, leading to a black archway that's decorated with curling heart shapes across the top. Through the archway is an implied, but invisible, stairway on the other side that seems to head back down to earth. Beyond the cobblestones and the railing a fog-like layer of clouds span the horizon, and above them nothing but beautiful blue sky stretches upwards.   It captured my heart and sent me spiraling back into the start of my spiritual journey and all of a sudden I was, as my off-the-boat-Italian grandfather used to say: in the toilet.   This is a true story, I'm calling it: Prayers in the Toilet     [Story:]   The first time I can really remember praying with all of my might, I was a pre-teen kid, sitting constipated on the toilet. I shit you not, pun totally intended, ‘cause that's a fucking good one!   This is one of the only memories I have of really trying to believe in god. I made a deal with him: If I could just get this turd out without splitting my skinny little body in two, I would pray every day.   Since I'm here telling you this story, obviously I lived to shit another day. But pray every day, I do not. I mean, I stuck with it for a few days, ever grateful to have made it out of the bathroom alive, but so many things about the religion I was raised in just didn't resonate with me, and it was hard to pretend.   Plus, the baby-forearm-sized poops were a semi-regular occurrence, and I was afraid to tell anyone because of a traumatizing experience I had with my grandmother (she once saved one of my massive turds to show my mother) and so I turned to god to save my hole. OMG, it's like the Universe is just begging me to be punny today.   But the truth was, the only time I ever did any more than pray, was when I was around my Gramma Dottie. And that's because she always cried to me about all the people she wouldn't see after armageddon, because sinners wouldn't be allowed on the paradise Earth he'd reserved for only his most devout followers, and she feared I wouldn't make it.   Most kids looked forward to their summer vacations, and I did too, except for those couple of weeks I was sent to Gramma's house. I mean, I had friends that had “religious” families, but none of their religious practices seemed to intrude so fully on day to day life as it did at Gramma's. It'd start right at breakfast, when I was tasked with reading the “daily text” aloud, while Gramma and Nana cooked breakfast. The thick pamphlet would open to the right page automatically, a brightly colored rubber band serving as a makeshift bookmark.   Then, before we ate any meal, we'd pray. It wasn't so bad on the days that Gramma did the praying, but it was a drag when I had to perform the shoddily memorized words I only ever used at her house.   On a good day that was all there was to it. But those days were rare. Most of the time there was a meeting to prepare for, or a bible study Gramma wanted to drag me to, or worst of all, a day of door-to-door preaching. As a cute little girl all foofed up, I was a marketing tactic… a way to soften hard expressions and limit the number of doors that were slammed in our faces.   But even when we just had a 1-hour meeting ahead of us, it was a whole production that filled me with dread. There was homework; reading followed by questions to answer. Then my least favorite part, I had to get all dressed up in the most ridiculous clothes. It was like getting ready for school but worse, because I had to wear tights and a dress and fugly ass shoes.   Don't get me wrong, it wasn't all bad at Gramma's house… in fact I have fond memories of library visits, board game nights, and crunching on fresh green beans picked straight from Nana's garden. But even all that goodness couldn't balance out the bad for me. And Gramma was always pushing me for more. “Why don't you read some bible stories?” she'd ask me when I picked up an R.L. Stein book that I actually wanted to read.   Guilt trips were her super power, and though they worked on me, they also pushed me away so I wouldn't have to feel so guilty all of the time.   I was a teenager before I finally told her the truth. My one saving grace was that Jehovah's Witnesses don't get baptized until they agree to it. “When are you going to get baptized, Becky?” Gramma asked me as we watched dozens of people get dunked at one of the assemblies. “I don't think I want to get baptized.” I told her.   I wish I could say that she backed off after that, but I'm sure it was more of my own distancing than by any choice of her own. Then, after she told me it'd been so long since she'd seen me that she'd forgotten what I looked like, I stopped calling her too.   This was around the time I'd begun exploring my own path through spirituality. I have my Mom to thank for that. As far as I knew, Dad was still a Jehovah's Witness, and while I looked forward to seeing him on the weekends, I did not look forward to Sunday meetings, which he continued to attend, with me in tow, until I was about 12 or 13. I didn't ask him why we stopped going at the time, too afraid my reminder might start the cycle back up again, but weekends got a lot more fun after that.   My Mom, on the other hand, was more like me. Though she didn't break free from the Jehovah's Witness life until after she'd been baptized, so that gave her an unsavory title. My Mom was Disfellowshipped… and if you ever want to get a Jehovah's Witness off your doorstep in record time, just tell them that you're Disfellowshipped and they'll disappear quick as a flash mob disperses. Maybe they'll even blacklist your address for awhile – there's a modern-day prayer I can stand behind.   Anyway, my Mom and Dad separated when I was five… and that was when the pagan party began. Well at least at Mom's house. Translation for all my non-Jehovah's Witness listeners: that was the first year I was introduced to mainstream holidays. Because when you're a J.W. you can't spread your arms out with out hitting a “pagan” practice. Birthdays, Christmas, Easter… basically anything with candy, presents, and fun… totally off limits. Most kids don't remember their first Halloween, but I do, and vividly. Mom dressed me up in a glow-in-the-dark skeleton costume, and she painted a creepy skull on my face with lots of bloody veins.   I never really got into Christmas, but that was probably because I had a bad experience before my parents split up. I can't say for sure, but I think my Mom was on the way out already when she'd taken me to my Aunt and Uncle's house, where I unwrapped my very first Christmas gift at 4 years old. It was definitely a dollar store gift, some brightly colored cardboard with holes punched out of it and dotted lines connecting those holes. It came with a ginormous kid-safe needle and yarn to pretend sew with. And I absolutely loved it; played with it all night until it was time to go home. But when I got home and showed my Dad my gift, he asked me where I'd gotten it, and the angry look on his face immediately turned me into a puddle of guilt as I blubbered out something about Christmas. Then Mom and Dad started screaming at each other, though I don't remember what exactly was said. And honestly, although I suspect my parents fought a lot when they were together, that's the only fight I actually remember.   But I'm getting off track… the point is that with my toe dipped into the forbidden fun stream mixed with all the unsatisfactory feelings of blatant manipulation I got from my given religion, I started to question reality more and more.   I became obsessed with the new age shelf at our bookstore. I read about ghosts, near death experiences, alien abductions and UFO sightings. I began to dabble in psychic development exercises, spellcasting and many different forms of divination. I don't know what I thought I was searching for back then… but in retrospect I can see it: I was looking for power, for a way to take control of the chaos I felt inside.   Then I started adulting, and most of the magick left my life. And for a good decade I tried to be like other people. I went to school, worked shitty jobs to pay for said school, got a dream job whose dreaminess quickly faded, and realized that money and job titles could only get me about 2 rungs up the happiness ladder before I started itching for a better ladder to climb.   It wasn't until I started meditating, sitting in the midst of so much unhappiness, that I finally started consciously creating my life.   Up until that point, during my magickal dry spell, I'd decided I was an atheist. Jokingly, I'd tell my friends that I was god. I reveled in my religious rebelliousness. I dared god, if he existed, to strike me down for such blasphemous thoughts, and I thought these thoughts often… but no lightning ever came.   Then one day I heard someone else say the same thing, except, they weren't joking. They said that we are all the gods of our own universe; we are creators. It's funny, I can't remember who first tickled my ears with that concept, because it's something I hear often now that I tune into that channel, but I vividly remember the resonance I felt when the words washed over me and I realized: I am a motherfucking god. And yes, so are you!   The stairway to heaven is inside of you. That's it. It's that simple.   But, since it took me 30+ years to learn this myself, I know first hand how easy it is to overcomplicate and therefore overlook that simplicity.   You might have noticed that I went silent on this podcast for quite awhile. I'm not gonna lie. I've spent many of the past several months in the fetal position sobbing intermittently. I mean, I've always felt like a rainbow colored sheep in a wooly sea of beige, but when the worldwide hysteria, division and fear started seeping into me… it was like I grew 3 extra heads and started levitating too. At least that's how I felt to stand in my truth outside of the flock… so I just stopped standing, and I crawled for a bit; it felt safer that way. Sad but safe…   I could blame 2020, but the hard truth I'm coming to realize is that, as a god, I need to accept responsibility for my own creations or, in this case, the lack thereof. What can I say? I'm a god in training. I'm still learning. But what I'm learning has been so fascinating and life-changing, that I've had a suddenly strong desire to share it all with you.   Because, if the whole calling-yourself-a-god thing feels icky, let me put it another way: life is art, and we are ALL artists. I don't know about you, but I want my life to be my greatest masterpiece.     [Conclusion:]   That's why I'm planning to stray a bit more out of my comfort zone from here on out. You can expect many of the upcoming podcast episodes to feature some of the most profound experiences and discoveries I've had on my spiritual journey. These will be personal narrative style stories, the only difference being that the art and writing ‘inspiration roles' will be reversed from a typical Art Ink story. Meaning the writing comes first and isn't necessarily a reaction or response to the art. Let's call it an art pairing! And, obviously, the subject matter will be a bit more focused on all things magickal and metaphysical.   And, full disclosure, this is also my attempt to balance the energy I'm sending your way. Another reason I haven't released a show in awhile was because I was working on a few dark stories that felt too hard to share at the time. Those stories will be released soon, and let me tell you, while I'm not lying when I say that I believe the stairway to heaven is inside of each of us, you bet your ass I know that the stairway to hell is in there too. So I think it's important that I share my shadows as well, for context, however scary that may seem.   I'm still accepting submissions for art and stories, on any topic, but until I'm able to commit to an outreach plan, I'm going to be focusing mostly on content creation and marketing, which means you'll be seeing a bit more art from my own stash until I'm mentally able to start scouting on social media again. Or… and to be honest, this is what I'm hoping, until the Universe taps you on the shoulder and you feel the same urgency I do to share your work with us here.   I'm not sure how that'll work just yet because you are experiencing the inspiration as it comes out of me right now… but this makes it even easier to get your art featured on Art Ink – you don't even have to write a story now!   Thanks so much to Mia for sharing her gorgeous Stairway to Heaven photograph with us today. I really encourage you to check out her work on Instagram @MiaDovolani to see what she's working on now. That's @MiaDovolani on Instagram.   Well, that's all I have for you today! Thank you all, so much for listening!

“It was under a slightly different, though no less mesmerizing, canopy of constellations that Hannah discovered the transformative power of a paintbrush. Hours of stargazing with her father at home in New Zealand inspired a deep respect for the conversation between control and chaos and, in turn, art became…     [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit https://rebekahnemethy.com/artink20 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Hannah Pearman Title of Art: Castor, Pollux Instagram: @hannahandthecosmos   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs       Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Welcome back, my friends, to a brand new episode of Art Ink! I feel like this is a repeating theme in this podcast lately, but the idea for this story was first scribbled into my notebook almost exactly a year ago.   I know I often describe my inspirations for stories as if they are that typical instantaneous cliché when I see art; like a lightning strike or the proverbial apple upon Isaac Newton’s head. But the truth is, many more stories are more like a long hike into the pathless woods.   I love abstract art so much, but sometimes it’s harder for me to find a true connection to the artist’s intention. Or at least that’s the story I tell myself when I’m feeling insecure.   But some artists make it a little bit easier for me when they do one simple thing: when they title their work! I won’t lie; using an artwork’s title is my go-to reference point to help me decide which direction to take my stories. So my advice today for you artists out there, even if you’re uncomfortable writing about your art at this time, at the very least, give your art titles – you’d be surprised how that small thing can help people form a connection with your work!   I want to thank today’s artist, for giving me those breadcrumbs to follow in today’s featured art.   Hannah Pearman, the artist behind @HannahandtheCosmos on Instagram, creates gorgeously galactic art that blows me out of this world every time I look at any of it. And because her own artist statement so succinctly expresses the why behind Hannah’s work, I wanted to share it with you:   “It was under a slightly different, though no less mesmerizing, canopy of constellations that Hannah discovered the transformative power of a paintbrush. Hours of stargazing with her father at home in New Zealand inspired a deep respect for the conversation between control and chaos and, in turn, art became the phrasebook for translating it.   Her work is one part longing for the glow-in-the-dark star-covered bedroom ceiling of her childhood, and three parts surrender to the miraculous confluence of choice and chance that makes the human experience so beautiful.   Through creative exploration of spectral peculiarities, Hannah is working her grasp around the enormity of the universe in which we’re suspended. Each piece is a whisper of gratitude, a way back home, and a wink to the cosmos.”   I don’t know about you, but I connect so much to these 3 simple paragraphs. I too had those glow in the dark stars in my childhood bedroom. And I’m in awe of the idea that such beautiful paintings are the result of control AND chaos… though as an artist myself I’ve experienced the magical balance of that formula in my own work too.   Anyway, my friends, please make sure you check out the cover art of today’s episode to get a glimpse of Hannah’s work. But as usual, before we take off into the story segment of this show, I will attempt to give those of you unable to look right now, a glimpse of Hannah’s art crudely re-painted with my words.     [Art Description:]   There are two paintings featured on today’s cover. Both are square and painted on 6x6 inch birch panels, and both were created from a similar color palette: covered in multiple shades of blue, aqua, purple, pink, and white. The painting on the left, titled Castor, is a bit darker, and uses a bit more navy and deep violet. The center left area in the piece looks like a black hole, and wispy cloudlike tendrils lighten to a medium purple around its edges where they reach out into the brighter areas of the painting in the top third and right half of the panel. This is where more wispy cloudlike shapes of white and pink and aqua swirl into one another. Some dollops of white are clustered around the edge of the black hole, like stars just about to be sucked in.   Pollux, the painting on the right, is bit more vibrant than Castor. There is a thick band of navy blue depth in the bottom quarter of the piece, but it quickly transitions upwards into a cerulean blue and then into a galactic cloud of aqua in the right middle area. To the left the blue cloud bleeds into a pink area that’s swirled with white. And above that same blue cloud its wisps seep into the bright white top right corner. A lake of pink in the white branches out into thin, river-like veins. The top left corner of the panel holds a purple galactic cloud that merges with the pink and white below and to the right of it.   So there you have Castor and Pollux, and if you thought they sounded like ear candy, be sure to check them out with your eyes, as they are much more beautiful than I could ever describe.   And with that my friends, I’ll lead you into my imagination for a little while.   This is the story of How Castor Found Pollux   [Story:]   Castor couldn’t believe what he was hearing; it was him… yet not him at all. Though the voice was lispy, and soft, it was unmistakably his own… just nicer somehow. Like a super nice caricature of himself. Castor imagined himself in an ugly sweater and glasses, then shook his head to unsee that image. It wasn’t pretty.   “Nobody loves Castor more than I do,” said the disembodied voice that was simultaneously him and not him.   Now shit was starting to get weird, Castor thought. He looked up from the handheld recorder on the desk and locked gazes with his shrink, Dr. Shelly. His eyes were wide with surprise, but hers were deadpanning him in an I-told-you-so kind of way.   “And, why do you think that Carl?” past Shelly asked through the speakers.   “Well because I’m the only one who forgives him for everything.”   “What do you forgive him for?” And then there was click, and the white noise hissing through the air suddenly went dead.   “Wait, what did he say?” Castor was at the edge of his seat, ready to spring up from the anticipation. Only seconds ago he’d barely believed Dr. Shelly’s claims, but the proof was undisputable. Someone lived inside of him… a stranger… but the scariest part was that he had absolutely no recollection of the conversation that had apparently happened just minutes ago.   “Nothing, that was when you came back.”   It wasn’t until that moment that Castor realized his jaw was hanging open. He closed his mouth and swallowed. His impulse to deny the diagnosis didn’t go away, but his faith in that belief was rapidly diminishing with the evidence still echoing in his ears.   “I recommend you start recording yourself,” Dr. Shelly said, “I suspect there are more—”   “More?!?” Castor’s eyes were bulging again, and his mouth hung open wide, as if he was a toddler waiting for a spoonful of applesauce.   “Well, I don’t know for sure but in most recorded cases of dissociative identity disorder there are usually more than one alter.   The gaping hole in Castor’s face transformed as his lips pulled into a tight, thin line. “Ok,” he forced through gritted teeth, “but why do I have to record them? Isn’t that your job?”   “I will continue to do so, yes, but the truth is that some of them may not be willing to come out in front of a stranger. What you’re able to discover on your own may help us to save all the time it would take for me to build up trust with these parts of yourself that have been repressed.   “Once we determine your triggers we’ll be able to work through the trauma that’s causing them, which will eventually help you to stay present and prevent future instances of memory loss.”   Castor nodded. Looked down.   “You’ve been through a lot of trauma Castor, your mind is just doing its best to protect you.”   When he looked back up again, Dr. Shelly was pushing a slip of paper across her desk. “Here, that’s my recommendation for a mic. It’s wireless and you can record right to your phone.”   Castor nodded again and reached for the paper.   “The next time you have one of your memory blips, listen back, and maybe you’ll get an answer to what happened.”   Castor left Dr. Shelly’s office without another word. He drove to the electronics store in silence, but in his head that strange lispy version of his own voice was playing on repeat. Could it be possible that there were more “alters” trapped inside of him? How many of him—them were there? Would he really be able to capture them with this plan?   It felt so ridiculous to Castor. He may as well have been purchasing equipment for a ghost hunt… why didn’t he get a night vision camera too so he could start a reality show and entertain people while he was at it.   He found the tiny microphone that Dr.Shelly had recommended, and as he brought it up to the counter, Castor felt suddenly embarrassed as if the cashier could hear the slew of secrets circling through his head. But luckily, the teenager who checked him out was more interested in her own phone than in anything Castor was buying, and she only glanced at the packaging long enough to find the bar code.   Castor couldn’t get out of his own head, though, despite the momentary relief of not being judged by anyone, because he was too busy judging himself. Was this what life had come to for him? On his way to hunt his own inner demons armed with nothing but a Bluetooth microphone?   Suddenly, another thought occurred to Castor, one that worried him far more than the humiliation of playing ghost hunter. Did this mean that he was crazy? Would they commit him if he couldn’t find and extinguish the people trapped inside him?   When he got home a few minutes later, Castor had already decided that he couldn’t let that happen. He dumped the plastic shopping bag onto the couch, and when the receipt swayed down through the air like a falling feather, a realization clicked into place. It wasn’t just his memory loss that now made sense, but all of those random charges to his credit card could be explained away by this diagnosis too. Castor ripped open the packaging and connected the mic to his phone, then clipped it to his shirt.   When he hit record all of his remaining energy drained out of him.   He considered going to sleep but knew that he’d just end up restlessly awake before the sun was up if he went to bed now. So instead he dropped onto the couch, turning on some mindless entertainment he’d already seen dozens of times. And that was the problem, because there was nothing to occupy his mind on the screen, and so he kept ruminating on Carl’s and Dr. Shelly’s conversation – before his mind ran off in worse case scenario tangents (like what if there was an evil, murderous sociopath that’d been regularly taking over his body) before circling back to the elephant-sized fact that there were more people he didn’t know hiding inside of him, just waiting to use him and abuse him just beyond his awareness.   Castor grew uncomfortable and turned away from the TV. It was growing dark outside and the multi-colored lights from the screen flickered around on the ceiling. His eyes blinked slowly… until they fell closed a final time.   ***   Castor is racing down the winding mountain road, stirring up freshly fallen leaves as he passes. Both windows are down and the cool dry air is dancing his shaggy hair into a frenzy. The whooshing air competes with the pounding music that’s blasting through the Mustang’s souped up speakers.   He looks over to the seat beside him, and the expression on PJ’s face is like a zap of lightning to his memory. Looking at PJ, his twin, is like a looking into a carnival mirror. They’re identical, but PJ’s personality twists his face into a goofy mask. PJ is the smiley mask to Castor’s frowny one. But this isn’t real, and Castor knows that. He knows he’s dreaming, so he let’s go of the wheel and leans back as he stares at his brother long and hard. Right now PJ is sticking his tongue out like he’s at a Kiss concert, one hand out the window letting the wind fly through his fingers.   Castor examines every inch of Pollux James’s face: the dimple between his cheek and chin, the lines being laughed around his eyes, the way the dappled, rapidly changing orbs of sunshine dance through the trees and onto his face. PJ will bob his head once… twice… three more times in slow motion before Castor has to close his eyes for impact.   Shutting his eyes used to wake him up, but now it just dulls the one sense. Soon the impact will explode into his ears: the squealing, the crunching of car… and bone. After two agonizing seconds of very real pain he’ll wake up. And though his eyelids curtain the scene, Castor’s memory replays it, only a bit more dully, in time with the orchestra of senses he can’t turn off.   Finally, the pain comes, sharpening to unbearable, before fizzling out into the now comforting pins and needles that vibrate across every bit of his skin. He stays still until it passes. A few minutes later he finally turns to look at the clock; it’s 4:44 a.m.   ***   Castor came to and the bright light was jarring. He was doing dishes? The last thing he had remembered was waking up from his night terror, and now it was well after noon, judging by the angle of sunlight being reflected off of his stainless steel sink. He dropped the sponge and the silverware he’d been scrubbing back into the sink and turned off the faucet.   He looked down to see that he was still in his clothes from yesterday and he was relieved to see the tiny mic still clipped to the front of his shirt. Then Castor swept his gaze over the countertop in search of his phone… and there it was. He grabbed it and sat down as he navigated to the recording app.   The oven clock confirmed what Castor had suspected, it was 2:32. He quickly did the math to figure out where he should start listening. He’d been out for nearly 10 hours. The app was set by default to start recording a new mp3 file every hour on long recordings; it was a failsafe to protect against the occasional glitch. But it also made it easy for Castor to count back to the file he wanted to start at.   He took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. Then he leaned over his phone and hit play.   All of Castor’s anticipation seemed to be for nothing, though. Listening to his recording was like listening to one long butt-dial. He heard rustling fabric against the microphone, a random thump here and there, and lot of him just breathing.   After the first half hour Castor got up to brew a pot of coffee. By two hours in he’d drunk the whole pot and had to put his hands flat on the counter to stop them from shaking.   He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but sitting around intently listening to absolutely nothing was not how he’d envisioned this day going. But it wasn’t like he had anything else to do.   Castor worked from home, though to say he worked at all since the accident was an absolute joke. It’d been six months. Six months since his best friend died. Since he’d killed his other half. Castor shook his head at that, Dr. Shelly wouldn’t be happy to hear him say that. But he hadn’t said those words aloud since the first time she’d chastised him. Thankfully she couldn’t hear his thoughts, because he couldn’t think about PJ without feeling the inevitable guilt that was now attached to their last moment together. There was no doubt in Castor’s head that his brother would still be alive if it wasn’t for his own negligence, and no amount of therapy would ever change that.   Suddenly a voice pulled Castor from his thoughts, “So you think you’re better than us, is that it Carl?”   “That’s not what I said, Ralph.”   “Then what were you trying to say? Because it sounded a lot like you were glorifying yourself—and putting the rest of us down.”   Another voice came through, “Or maybe he was just trying to get Dr. Shelly to warm up to him. Got news for you Carl – the little blue pill she makes you swallow isn’t going to discriminate, you’ll be gone too, despite your godlike forgiveness.”   “What does it even matter if we’re all going to die anyway?” That was a new voice too; slow and subdued.   “Why be shy if we’re all gonna die?!?” Yet another caricature of Castor’s voice came through the speaker, this one amused. “Heh, heh,” he snickered.   A low growl began, and it quickly escalated until a loud thump concluded it. It was like someone had brought their fist down upon a solid surface; the counter or Castor’s desk maybe?   “Calm yourself, Ogre,” someone chastised, it sounded like Ralph, “we’re not going to die guys… Steve, stop being such an asshole!”   “I dunno, maybe Steve’s right about the pills… what other outcome could there be… we knew we were at risk the moment we saw the doctor.” The melancholy one said.   “Big belly Shelly,” the amused one snickered.   “Why do you think I was trying to get on her good side, fellas? I wanted her to know that we’re here to help Castor.” Carl sighed.   “Maybe we need to disappear for awhile—make her think we’re gone so she’ll lay off for a bit,” Ralph said, but he didn’t wait for a response before he continued. “Yeah, that’s what we’ll do. Do you all think you can keep your mouths shut for the next couple of weeks?   “Oh that’s a great idea… let’s just repress ourselves why don’t we? Why don’t we just get ahold of a sleeping pill ‘script and off ourselves right now?” Steve deadpanned.   “How could you suggest such a thing?” Carl said.   “Stay away and our souls may stray.” It sounded to Castor like the jokey poet was agreeing with Steve in his own cryptic way.   “Andy’s right,” the sad sounding one drawled, “if we stay away too long, we’re likely to disappear on our own.”   “GRRRRRR!!!” Orge growled in agreement.   “Don’t worry, Tom, we won’t stay away long enough to let that happen. The point isn’t to off ourselves,” Ralph argued, “it’s to get her off our backs until we can give Castor Pollux’s message.”   Castor gripped both arms of his chair. “Pollux?” he whispered.   “It’s impossible,” the sad one sighed. “Castor never remembers his dreams… at least not the good ones… and he never remembers us.”   The white noise of the recording rolled on into infinity after that, but no one else spoke. Castor sat expectantly for the first few minutes, waiting for more, but eventually his mind wandered off to run in its own circles.   He’d counted six distinct voices in that recording, including the growly one they called Ogre. Six people inside of him; people with the ability to shut him down, put him on standby so they could have their own little private pow-wow. It was frightening to think that they had that much control over him… even more terrifying to consider that they’d been hiding inside of him all this time.   But they were him, according to Dr. Shelly. That they appeared and acted separately from him was just a defense mechanism his body had implemented in order to help him deal with the trauma of losing PJ.   PJ… they’d said they had a message from him.   And what did they mean when they said he couldn’t remember his dreams? He had the same damn dream every night—a dream he wished he could forget.   Castor suddenly felt torn. His next move should be to send this file to Dr. Shelly… but they didn’t trust her… and if they were really just a part of him… then should Castor trust her? It looked like he was outnumbered 6 to 1.   But who was Castor kidding? That was just a convenient justification. Because if those strange little voices claimed to have a message from his brother, then they were right about one thing: he had to keep them alive until he got it.   Castor marched over to his computer. He placed his phone within hearing range, although nobody was talking at the moment, there were still hours of recordings for him to listen to and so he let the soft static play on. Then he turned to his monitor and pulled open a browser window.   “How to… remember… your dreams,” Castor said as he typed into the search bar.   He scrolled through the list of results but quickly became frustrated with the answers. He didn’t have time to sit around and meditate on his intention and write in a goddamned dream journal.   “How to remember your dreams quickly,” Castor tried, disappointed to see that many of the same websites were coming up. In the preview text of one new site, the author suggested drinking massive amounts of water so that your bladder would naturally wake you at the end of your dream cycle. That sounded annoying, and Castor suspected he was more likely to just piss the bed than to wake up and remember his dream, but at least it was something he had time to try.   A familiar low growl rose up into the air, alongside a fumbling sort of rustling made up of soft thumps and swooshing static. Castor lifted his phone to his ear.   “Hey fellas, look what Ogre found!” Carl called out.   “What is it?” Tom asked.   “It’s a microphone.” Ralph said.   “Well hallelujah,” Steve said sarcastically, “our oppressor is listening… say hello to your girlfriend, Carl.”   “Big belly shelly?” Andy asked, but his tone was lacking its usual amusement; he just sounded afraid.   “I don’t think so, fellas… well maybe, eventually, she’ll hear it, but we’re home, not at the doctor’s office.”   “You’re right, Castor must be recording this himself.” Ralph realized. “Castor if you can hear us, do not give Shelly this recording. You need all of us to go home.”   “Calea tea-uh! Calea tea-uh!” Andy said.   “Oh, of course, the Calea tea.” said Carl.   “We put it in cupboard.” Steve continued, and for once it sounded like his dry humor might have evaporated.   Castor was up and walking towards the kitchen before Tom could say, “You should drink a cup right now.” And he sounded almost happy.   “You should drink many cups,” Ralph added, “it’ll help Pollux to connect with you tonight. He’s not dead, Castor, just out of touch.”   Ogre barked out an agreement.   Castor yanked at the cabinet door in front of him, and there it was. A giant bag of tea leaves labeled “Calea Zacatechichi.” In smaller letters beneath it said “Mexican dream herb.”   How Castor had not noticed it was a testament to his recent tunnel vision. The bag was right next to his coffee, which he used daily. He opened the tea and sniffed; it had a peppery smell. May as well give it a go.   First the first time in a long time, Castor finally felt like he had a purpose. Interesting to note that his dissociative identities had been the ones to cheer him up. Using the technical term for his “condition” brought him back into the doctor’s office; Dr. Shelly would have a field day with that little tidbit. She acted professional and all that, but there was a gleam in her eye when she’d diagnosed him. Castor guessed conditions like his were probably rare, so he couldn’t really blame her. But he also couldn’t help feeling resentful about being her lucky little lab rat.   He put the bag down and glanced down at his phone to see if the play head was still moving. The boys had been silent for a while… but the seconds were still ticking away— he guessed they were done for now. Maybe for the day. But you never know, so Castor let the silent file play on, as he made his way to the sink to fill the teapot.   Castor took a sip and scrunched his nose. Despite it’s appetizing smell, the stuff tasted bitter. He had no idea how he was going to get down a single cup of it, let alone several.   Maybe some lemon would make it better? He squeezed a hefty splash from the tiny bottle he kept in the fridge. He tentatively took a sip, and it was still awful. Sugar it is then, he decided, but even after four heaping spoonfuls, though improved, it was still barely tolerable.   Over the course of the next few hours, Castor drank as much of the nasty tea as he could while listening to the remaining audio he’d recorded the previous day. Aside from the occasional rustle though, nothing more came from his six new friends.   Castor questioned himself at that thought. Could they be his friends if they were actually a part of himself? It was strange, but now that he was aware of them he felt a sort of attachment to them. The thought of handing them over to Dr. Shelly didn’t sit right with him. They were afraid of her, because she wanted to get rid of them. He couldn’t help but empathize with them. What if it were him who was to be annihilated from existence? He was sure he’d feel the same.   He was glad he had some time to think things through before his next appointment. Time to get to the bottom of what his new “friends” were trying to tell him. Castor wasn’t sure he totally believed everything they were telling him. And some of it most certainly confused him. But knowing that Pollux still existed somewhere and that there was a chance he’d be able to talk to him again burned a flame of hope in him so bright, that he could easily look past all the weird nonsensical things he’d overheard.   Castor hadn’t had a memory lapse since the previous day. And he was grateful, especially since he was unable to record and listen simultaneously. After he’d reviewed the last bit of white noise he’d captured, he started a new recording.   It took such a long time for Castor to dilute the caffeine from all the coffee he’d drunk, but eventually he began to get sleepy. He crawled into bed and drifted away. When he saw his brother, alive and well, and reaching toward him, Castor finally felt like everything was going to be ok.   ***   Dr. Shelly was still riddled with confusion, when the detective came by to drop off Castor’s phone. Though she was nodding her head as she took it from him, she wasn’t registering any of his words… she was still seeing the image of Castor’s empty, rumpled bed in her mind’s eye. The police hadn’t found a body in that bed, only what Castor had left behind: the tiny mic she’d recommended and his phone. No one who went anywhere willingly left their phone behind. You didn’t have to be Nancy Drew to know that. Dr. Shelly forced a smile as she shut the door behind the retreating officer.   It saddened her to no end that she had been the one to report Castor missing; that he had no friends or family who’d noticed he was gone. And now, after the police had taken their time coming up with nothing, they were finally letting her have her turn.   Dr. Shelly was no detective, but she knew that the longer a person was missing, the less likely it was that they would be found. That’s the only reason she opted to listen to the latest recordings on Castor’s phone first, despite her preference to listen to them in order.   She pressed play on the last file recorded. It took awhile to get to it, but Castor’s voice finally came through. And, as calmly as she’d ever heard him, he said, “Oh yes, Pollux, I’m so ready to come home.”       [Conclusion:]   Well, my friends, I hope you enjoyed my modern twist on the Castor and Pollux story. I actually didn’t have a clue in the world as to who these two were until I did a little Googling. Castor and Pollux are twin half brothers from Greek and Roman mythology. For our purposes, we’ll stick to the Greek version of the story.   While Castor and Pollux shared the same mother, they had different fathers. Castor’s father was the King of Sparta, which made him a mortal, but Pollux was a demigod whose father was Zeus himself. One day, when the twins were fighting side by side in battle, Castor was struck with a lethal blow. In order to save his brother, Pollux asked his father if he could share his immortality with Castor, which is how they both ended up transforming into the two brightest stars in the Gemini constellation we still see today, to live together eternally in the night sky.   Upon further research, I also discovered that Castor’s star is not just one star, but actually six stars in one. And that’s when I stopped researching and started writing.   There is much more to discover about Castor and Pollux’s story, should you want to pursue it further, but I just wanted to give you a glimpse into what stuck with me as I rewrote my own modern take on how the Gemini twins found each other in the sky.   So before we say goodbye, I’d like to send big virtual hugs over to Hannah, who was so kind as to share her art with us today, and who gave me the breadcrumbs to follow that eventually led me to writing this story. Unfortunately for you, both Castor and Pollux, the paintings, are both already sold, but there is plenty more cosmic eye candy available for your viewing and purchasing pleasure over @hannahandthecosmos on Instagram. So definitely check that out whenever you can.   Thanks so much for listening, my friends… I’ll catch ya on the next one.

What would happen if someone started a hugging booth in today’s world? I fell down that bunny pit one sleepless night recently, and my seemingly instantaneous stream of consciousness turned into today’s story. It’s fiction, as in these characters don’t exist and the events depicted did not happen, but it takes place in the very surreal world we all find ourselves in…  

Kali’s been painting for nearly a decade now, and for many of those years she did it without missing a single day! #artistgoals Am I right?!? Her bright, colorful, playful style was what I was drawn to at first, but it was her writing that pulled me in completely. At the time she was the only other artist I could find that maintained a blog that complimented her work. The words she shared let me into her world, let me get to know her in a way that…     [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit https://rebekahnemethy.com/artink18 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Kali Parsons Title of Art: Hold Me & Play With Me Artist’s Website: kaliparsons.com Instagram: @kaliparsonsart Take a look at all of Kali’s available originals   If the originals have already sold before you can get to them, she’d be happy to sell you a print by request, just shoot her a message!   Artists Helping Artists – the podcast for artists that led me to Kali! (It’s on a break right now, but there are 8 years of archived episodes you can still dig into!)   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs     Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Welcome back to another episode of Art Ink! I’m so thrilled you’re joining us today.   If you listened to the last show, The Synchronicity of Hope, you may already be familiar with Kali Parsons’ work, but the truth is there’s a lot about Kali that I neglected to tell you. I guess that’s what happens when you’re too close to something or someone, because although I’ve never met Kali in person, and until last week I didn’t even know how to properly pronounce her name, I do consider Kali to be a dear friend.   I met her on Twitter several years ago and we quickly became retweeting buddies, always sharing each other’s work in our streams. And though we became friends on social media, it was because of a podcast called Artists Helping Artists that led me to Kali’s work in the first place. One of the hosts described this fascinating site called Daily Paintworks, where artists are encouraged to complete small paintings every day. Kali’s been painting for nearly a decade now, and for many of those years she did it without missing a single day! #artistgoals Am I right?!?   Her bright, colorful, playful style was what I was drawn to at first, but it was her writing that pulled me in completely. At the time she was the only other artist I could find that maintained a blog that complimented her work. The words she shared let me into her world, let me get to know her in a way that her paintings alone couldn’t do. Don’t get me wrong, her work is stunning, and I have one of her whimsical originals in my bedroom to prove it. But what I’m trying to hint at here is the fact that you could be the most talented artist in the world, but in my humble opinion, you have to share more than that to make a real connection with people. And there’s no better way to do that than by sharing a bit of your story.   Kali is authentic and raw in her writing, so I’m beyond grateful that she’s allowing me to share some of it with you today.   In addition to being a prolific artist, Kali is also a special education teacher. Through everything she shares about teaching, creating with, and connecting to these kids, it’s obvious that Kali loves what she does very much.   For those of you unable to look at the cover art, we’re featuring two of Kali’s paintings today, let me attempt to paint these pictures with words until you have a chance to check them out for yourself:   [Art Description:]   Both paintings are a whimsical combination of shapes, colors, and paint splatters. They both have a blend of orange and green background colors splashed with a bit of black and white, and they both feature abstractly shaped main subjects that remind me of toys and stuffed animals.   In the one titled Play With Me, I see the love child of E.T. and a frog, and maybe that robot from Short Circuit? Ya know, “number 5 is alive.” It resembles a toy, a thick-bodied chunky toy that tapers up towards a triangular head. Its body is white, with yellow and blue circles floating amongst thick rectangular brush strokes. Red squares of paint fill the big round frog-like eyes. On either side of its body, the froggy has big circles that seem to show motion, as if it is, in fact, a robot spinning its arms too fast to see.   The other painting, Hold Me, looks like a stuffed bear. Maybe a panda bear? Like our froggy friend, our panda bear friend also has a white base, with pink, black and white circles inside of circles for eyes. These pink bullseye-looking shapes appear on the bear’s paws and legs too, with some red and yellow ones thrown in for good measure. Yellow, blue and red squares sparsely decorate the bear’s body too.   In pure Kali style, the area surrounding both toys is filled with shapes and splatters that just scream fun!   In my eyes, this is a perfect example of how Kali uses her paintings to shine light into the world, despite the heaviness of what we’ve all been feeling lately.   Before we dig into Kali’s prose, I want to give you some context in case you’re listening from the future, we’re coming to you from the summer of 2020 amidst much chaos and uncertainty in a rapidly changing world.   Each of the following stories first appeared on Kali’s blog alongside her beautiful art.     [Story:]   July 9th - Play With Me   As an Early Childhood Special Education teacher, teaching children social skills, how to work, solve problems, and play together are among my primary and favorite objectives. We teach, and children learn, through play. This coming school year instead of teaching my three, four, and five year old students with disabilities how to play and socialize together I will be put in the position of teaching them how to stay apart...distanced. How harmful will it be to the children in our society to be taught to suffocate that internal urge to be with, beside, and among their peers? How harmful will it be to be taught that when they want to empathize with a friend who is sad or hurt that they must stay away? How harmful will it be to be taught that when they want to play that they must sit away from friends and only play with their own set of toys? In person teaching before we can safely be in close proximity has dangers far beyond contracting the virus.   July 13th - Hold Me   In my sixteen years of teaching I have never had a first day of school (or any day, really) when every student just walked right in, happy to say "good bye" to their parents, and smoothly joined their peers in learning and play. Very few of my students do this. Many of my students need (and deserve) to be hugged and held through this transition that is such a leap into the great unknown for them. I've hugged and held students at drop off for days, weeks, and sometimes months until they adjusted, hugging and holding three, four, and five year old children who do not fully comprehend this transition or just simply want their mom and dad. And while hugging one child others invariably come over to join the hug. I've had parents have to enter my classroom while still holding their children and in a tangle of arms, mine, the parent's, and the child's, I take over the comforting of these children as their parents make an exit and I give them a friendly look over their child's shoulder or wave, reassuring them that their child will be OK. This is something I've embraced as part of my job. This school year my students will be being dropped off with a shielded and masked teacher that they may or may not recognize (even though I will be doing a Zoom meetings with them before school starts showing myself putting all of my PPE on). They will have just been through whatever screening protocols the district decides upon and gone through some process of getting to my room. Being upset by this transition is to be expected and understandable. In the current crisis requiring distance, how can I comfort my students and keep them and myself safe. How can I lean in and be part of a tangle of arms? How can I reassure parents that it's going to be OK?  It's possible that some of my students may be able to wear a mask, but it will likely be beyond many of their comprehension, tolerance, and ability to do so for an entire school day. So much to think about and this is just the first five or so minutes of each school day.     [Conclusion:]   I’m sure school is already back in session for many of you. Where I am in NY there are still a couple of weeks left before kids go back to school, and as someone who is only a parent to furry and feathered kids, I haven’t been informed on what new policies will be implemented this year in my area.   But I think that Kali brings up some valid concerns. Forced separation could be dangerous path to go down, especially for young children… and I hope every day that it’s only temporary.   Big virtual hugs to Kali for sharing her work with us today. You can discover more of Kali’s whimsical art at kaliparsons.com and please do go follow her on Instagram @kaliparsonsart.   Both paintings that are featured in the cover art of this episode are still for sale at the time of this recording. They’re 12x16 mixed media paintings on watercolor paper and you can bet your booty there will be a link in the show notes to where you can purchase those as well as all the other linkable things that were mentioned today.   And that’s a wrap, my friends, thank you all so much for listening. If you enjoyed this show be sure to subscribe so that you can hear me later. Buh bye now, buh bye!

I would venture to accuse today’s artist of being both artsy fartsy AND nerdy wordy. Because Kali Parsons has been on my list of artists to feature here since day one of brainstorming Art Ink, well before even a second of audio was recorded. She was one of the few artists I followed who always wrote a tiny story to share along with her fun and whimsical art, and so if you’re an artist who wants to see great examples of how a splash of story can be used to compliment your art…     [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit https://rebekahnemethy.com/artink17 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Kali Parsons Title of Art: Hope Artist’s Website: kaliparsons.com Instagram: @kaliparsonsart   If you connected with this story in any way Michael & Susan would love to hear from you. They can be reached via e-mail at michaeldbreazeale@gmail.com   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs     Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Hey there my artsy fartsy, nerdy wordy friends. Sorrynotsorry, you know if you’re here you’re at least half of that description, if not the whole shebang! Own it already.   I would venture to accuse today’s artist of being both artsy fartsy AND nerdy wordy. Because Kali Parsons has been on my list of artists to feature here since day one of brainstorming Art Ink, well before even a second of audio was recorded. She was one of the few artists I followed who always wrote a tiny story to share along with her fun and whimsical art, and so if you’re an artist who wants to see great examples of how a splash of story can be used to compliment your art, I insist you check out her work at kaliparsons.com.   If you’re new to Art Ink, you should know that it’s Kali’s painting that’s gracing the cover of this episode. And it’s that very painting that inspired the beautiful story you’re about to hear. This is usually the part where I describe the featured artwork for listeners who are unable to look at their devices for whatever reason, but today we’re going to be doing things a bit differently. As Kali wrote to me, “Sometimes the art takes off and creates a story all on its own.” And this painting, named “Hope,” isn’t just the spark that instigated this episode, she’s also a character in the following true story.     I present to you The Synchronicity of Hope.     [Story:]   “Hope is the power of being cheerful in circumstances that we know to be desperate.” -GK Chesterton   Most 18-year-old kids get a tattoo to rebel against their parents, but not Sean. No, Sean’s 1st tattoo was an orange and purple, single-word prayer that his mom would survive what life had dealt her, and his dad not only went with him, but got his own, matching ink, the very same day.   “Hope,” the tattoos said. And that’s what Sean and his father, Michael, did. They hoped that Susan could beat the cancer she’d just been diagnosed with. Hodgkin’s Lymphoma was the 2nd critical diagnosis Susan had taken since becoming a wife and a mother, after a 17-year struggle with primary progressive MS, which is a type of MS that doesn’t remit or relapse. It came on fast and it’s progressively gotten worse over the years. Sean had only been a few months old when that news had come; he doesn’t remember the version of his mother who wasn’t reliant on a wheelchair.   Hope had already been a familiar mantra for their family for several years, had become one after they’d attended their first MS Awareness walk together. Susan’s first neurologist was convinced a cure for MS would be developed in our lifetimes, and that was the hope that she had clung to all those years… so you can imagine the devastation when yet another layer of health challenges began to manifest.   This new diagnosis was the catalyst for Sean and Michael to literally inject a healthy dose of hope into their skin. They chose orange ink to stand for MS Awareness; and the purple ink represented Hodgkin’s.   Shortly afterwards, their mantra started to expand into a wall in their home that was dedicated to hope-filled art and design.   Meanwhile… Michael’s childhood friend, Kali, had been following his updates on Facebook. They hadn’t been in touch through more than social media since their 7th grade band broke up, yet Kali was continuously moved by the strength she witnessed in Michael and Susan’s marriage. When the post that detailed this latest blow to their family’s struggle went live, Kali had just finished a painting that would be a perfect fit for them, and it just so happened to be called “Hope.” It was of a serene looking girl outlined in black with her eyes closed, and the word “hope” in one, thin, black line of script hovered above her head, the only pop of color on the black and white canvas was a blue heart that filled the girl’s entire chest.   So Kali had a print made and sent it to Michael. Soon afterwards, much too soon afterwards Kali recalled, she’d gotten a notification that the original painting had sold on her website, and it was Michael who had bought it! There was no way the print had had enough time to make it through the mail, but Kali couldn’t be sure until she asked him.   “Hey, my friend.” Kali sent to Michael via Facebook. “I just have to ask. Received a surprise package I sent you? Just curious if we have some synchronicity going. xo”   “No. When did you send it? Was it USPS? If you sent me a print of “Hope” that would be some kind of next level awesomeness going on. Did you?”   “That’s exactly what it was! I didn’t think it could’ve gotten to you yet. I love you and me!”   “Hang on a moment. I gotta bring Susan up to speed on this…. We are both a little teary-eyed right now. I saw that a few other people had shown interest and then I got pretty busy with work. But just like you, she’s been in my mind all this time. When I saw her again this morning, I didn’t think twice about placing the order. Susan said to tell you ‘thank you.’ So much love for you and so inspired by your beautiful soul.”   So I have to ask you, dear listeners… do you think it might be possible for art to be aware. That just maybe Kali’s painting had it’s own mission to fulfill… that’s it’s possible for “things” to have souls? That they have a kind of consciousness that sends subtle energies into the Universe? Am I losing you with my weirdoism? Well… then let’s get back to the story shall we?   Because “Hope,” the painting, made her way into Michael’s home, but though she served as a constant source of inspiration for him and his family, she was more therapy than cure.   The challenges are real and seemingly never ending, and though Michael knows his marriage is stronger than it’s ever been, he still misses the good old days, before MS, before cancer. When I asked him in an email what their biggest struggle was he replied openly and vulnerably:   “Our biggest struggle. Wow.” He wrote. “Strap in because this is a deep sharing. Physical love & intimacy. Susan was 26 when she was diagnosed and I was 29. Married for three years, new beautiful baby son, young & in love and totally hot for each other. Within two years, spasticity had completely changed her body geometry and bladder incontinence had forced us to get a urostomy.   Chemotherapies we tried to slow down the MS had led to early menopause and muscle contractures & spasticity has caused her arms to cross and they are now locked to her chest. None of this is very sexy or romantic. It’s been over a decade that Susan hasn’t been able to hug me or hold me.   I tell people that love is like a wheel with many spokes. Physical, sex, intimacy, companionship, friendship, community, happiness, joy, spirituality, mental, dialog, honesty, trust, confidence and action; to name a few. True love can handle the removal of several of these spokes and the wheel will continue to roll and do its job. It’s false love that falls apart when you remove just one or a few. But, it’s been difficult to not have the physical aspect of our love and it’s a deep source of depression for me.”   But, alongside Michael and Susan’s greatest struggle, lies some of their most precious memories. The two that they shared with me in that same email, interestingly enough, also came about on the other side of cancer.   “We had limited options in treating her cancer.” Michael explained. “No radiation therapy and only two of the four drugs on the second choice for chemotherapies. Susan did initially respond well to the chemo, but then it stalled. We switched to immunotherapy which actually put her into remission. But, the lymph nodes became active again within six months. This was grim. We had the conversation about how long we might be able to keep the cancer from ending her life and “salvage” therapies. They really need to come up with a better term than that.   A few months later we were at the opening night of the Orange County Fair. It’s a tradition for us to go to the opening night and to share a funnel cake just before we leave. We were sharing our desert and Susan asked me what I thought about renewing our vows on our anniversary. I pondered this for a moment and asked her, “Did you just propose to me over funnel cake at a county fair?” Which I joked was the most white trash thing I could think of. Then of course tearfully, I said yes. That part is my fondest memory of our love story. Susan’s is the actual vow renewal…”   [Vow Renewal Ceremony]   “Dearest family and friends, we are here today to celebrate the story of two hearts named Michael and Susan. Let me tell you how the story goes.   Once upon a time, a dedicated young Marine walked into a hotel lobby where a spirited young lady worked behind the counter. Through the trickery of his cohorts, the young Marine soon found himself riding beside the young lady in a snazzy white convertible. The young Marine did not realize he was about to be taken on the ride of a lifetime! Neither realized they had just met their soulmate.   As these two beautiful hearts became entwined, a promise to love and cherish forever was the natural next step. They were married September 25th 1993. Twenty-two years ago yesterday. That year, a gallon of gas cost $1.11 and a movie ticket was $4.14. It was the year Beanie Babies were introduced. And let’s not forget Milli Vanilli returned their Grammy. Girl, you know it’s true!   Soon after and with plenty of K-I-S-S-I-N-G, the two hearts became further and inextricably entwined. Much like two trees planted next to each other decades ago.   Rings are often exchanged at weddings as a symbol of eternal love. Love is the state in which your partner’s happiness comes above all else. The circle of the ring represents wholeness and perfection, with no beginning and no end. It wraps the finger of the loved one with the constant reminder of love, devotion, and respect. So today, I wrap these two hearts in the circle of this sash which represents their joint, steadfast recommitment to the ties which bind them together.   Michael and Susan, today, with the love and support of your friends and family, you honor each other as beloveds and partners in marriage.   Michael, would you please share your thoughts and promises with Susan?   [Michael’s Vows]   ‘My dearest Susan, as we are here together today, I think back to all the wonderful memories we have shared. There really is no greater feeling than to have your best friend by your side every day. Twenty-two years ago, I promised to love you, no matter what else happened. And though we have had our struggles, that love has been strong enough to persevere through them all.   You have been confident, caring, nurturing, optimistic and supportive; even when the bounds of sickness and health have been tested to their limits. You are my best friend and lover, my partner, my shoulder to cry on and the arms that I cannot imagine being without. I have always loved you. I still love you. I love you as much now as I did twenty-two years ago. And I know that at some time in the future, when we meet again, on beach in the warm sun, destined to be together, that I will love you then.   Today I pledge to be by your side, to be your strength when you are weak, to never leave you, to be understanding and to be the husband you deserve. I love you.’   Susan, would you please share your thoughts and promises with Michael?   [Susan’s Vows]   ‘Michael,   I’ve had a difficult time trying to find the perfect words to tell you just how much you mean to me and how much love I have for you. None the less I’m going to try…   The night we met, I asked who wanted to ride with me and your hand went up and you said I will. I had no idea that we would still be on that ride 23 years later and that hand would hold mine as we made our way through all that life had in store for us.   For better or worse, in sickness and health, for richer or poorer. We have been tested by all the original vows we made. Together we have, not only survived, but triumphed.   Michael, you are my strength. Not only physically but more importantly, emotionally. You make me laugh. You drive me crazy. You frustrate me. You make me proud. And you make me love you more every day.   Today, I am reaffirming my commitment to you and our life together. I promise to be your friend and confidante, your sounding board, and your safe place. I will continue to look towards our future with optimism and excitement.   I love you, Michael.’     As you continue on your journey together, I encourage you to remember that as tides ebb and flow, so too do the fortunes of life. Footprints in the sand are washed away. Driftwood moves on its endless quest for a peaceful harbor. Only a deep and abiding love can withstand the tides of change in two lives.   May you continue to be sensitive to each other’s needs. Be open and understanding with each other. Share your thoughts and feelings out loud in the safe harbor of your relationship. Continue to bring out the best in other.   By the power invested in me, I now pronounce you Spaghetti and Meatballs! Michael, you may kiss your bride.   Friends, family, I now present to you, for the first time ever, Mr. and Mrs. Breazeale version 2.0!”   And yes, in case you’re wondering, their officiant was ordained by the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, and she did that specifically for this occasion. It made sense considering the Breazeale’s aren’t unified in their religious beliefs.   “Our family is kind of like a joke.” Michael wrote in another email. “You know, “an Agnostic, a Buddhist and a Christian walk into a bar.” He was writing to answer my final question to him about what Hope means to them. And, just like a prayer, the definition of Hope is shaped by its beholder.    “I like what Desmond Tutu has to say about Hope. ‘I’m not an optimist because that in a sense is something that depends on feeling. More than the actual reality. We feel optimistic, or we feel pessimistic. Now hope is different, in that it is based not on the ephemarality of feelings. But on the firm ground of conviction. I believe with a steadfast faith that there can never be a situation that is utterly, totally hopeless. Hope is deeper and very close to unshakeable. It’s in the pit of your tummy.’    We both agree that Hope is a dynamic feeling and that it changes over time.    For Susan, initially that Hope was mostly defined around her MS. Her first neurologist told her that within his career “...there would be a cure for MS.” Three neurologists later there still isn’t a cure. But in the words of Archbishop Tutu she believes with a steadfast faith that her situation is not totally hopeless. When she was diagnosed with lymphoma, that Hope changed to something maybe a little more desperate. The Hope that the cancer could be cured and not end her life. The Hope that Sean and I would be able to cope with losing her, if that were to happen. The last 1.5 years have been a test for me. Anxiety and depression led me down a path of alcohol addiction. I’m in recovery and we are strong. But, some of those Hopes are now about being successful in recovery and continuing to experience joy in our lives.   My Hopes mirror my Buddhist philosophy. I constantly meditate about being able to choose the right paths, to help reduce her suffering to as little as possible. To choose the paths that will give her love and joy. I’m definitely a believer in reincarnation. I know with that same steadfast Hope that in the future, Susan and I will meet again. Somewhere on a beach, in the warm sun and we will know that we will have both found something special. That Hope and her Love gives me strength to continue living our love story.”     [Conclusion:]   When Kali wrote to me about the synchronicity she’d experienced with “Hope” she concluded her email with some credits, “I thank my art, I thank our open spirits, I thank [Michael’s] beautiful wife [Susan], and I must thank Facebook ... through these four a space was created in the Universe for our friendship to bloom and magic to happen.”   And we also would like to thank Michael and Susan for being so open to sharing their personal journey with us today. Your story has both humbled and inspired us. Last but not least, we thank Kali, for sharing her beautiful work with us here and, of course, for connecting all the dots that led to this show.   Be sure to visit Kali at kaliparsons.com and @kaliparsonsart on Instagram. Links to those places can be found in the show notes, along with a photo of the painting that inspired today’s episode. Sadly, not all podcast apps show the featured artwork the same way, but there’s always a link to where you can see the art included in those show notes.   You’ll also be able to find additional photos Michael sent me in the show notes, including the ‘Hope’ wall, so be sure to dig into that too, when you’re able.   If you connected with this story in any way Michael & Susan would love to hear from you. They can be reached via e-mail at michaeldbreazeale@gmail.com   That’s all we have for you today, thank you all so much for listening. Check back in couple of weeks and you’ll be able to hear me later. TTFN my friends.

Sean Howard is all of the things! He’s a talented speaker, podcaster, writer, brand marketer, and he’s the co-founder of Fable and Folly, a network of kick ass audio fiction podcasts, some of which he’s acted in and produced. Which is...   [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit https://rebekahnemethy.com/artink15 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]   Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Sean Howard Title of Art: Disconnected Artist’s Website: seanhoward.ca Instagram: @passitalong   Discover audio fiction podcasts on Sean’s network: fableandfolly.com   Sean Howard’s Levitation photographs   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs     Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Hello again, my friends! It’s been awhile since I’ve last spoken to you, and I hope you didn’t think I’d gone and pod-faded on you!   Believe it or not, I haven’t taken any breaks from this show. I’ve written at least a little bit, almost daily since the last episode came out. In my head, I was sure I was writing a short story, but it didn’t want to end, I just kept writing and writing, and watching the word count grow and grow.   One day I impulsively took a break to Google the definition of a short story, because I wasn’t so sure that this writing still fit into that category anymore. By the time I’d done the search it was already well over 10,000 words, which falls into the realm of a novelette. Anyone else out there new to this literary term? Apparently that is what you call a story that’s too long to be a short story but too short to be considered a novella.   I got excited at that point because I was sure that I was almost done, and as my creativity accountability partner Amy will attest, week after week it was my goal to finish this story. I was convinced that by the time I was done writing I’d get to introduce you to my finished novelette. Yet here I am, another 10,000+ words later, and I’m quite sure this story is destined to be a full-length novel… eventually anyway. For now, I’m calling it a novella and I’m recording it for you, because you’ve waited long enough!   Today’s artist is who I’m going to blame for all of this, Sean Howard, it’s totally all your fault for creating something that inspired me so much! I was instantly triggered when I saw your work, and it sent me down a rabbit hole that was hard for me to escape.   Sean Howard is all of the things! He’s a talented speaker, podcaster, writer, brand marketer, and he’s the co-founder of Fable and Folly, a network of kick ass audio fiction podcasts, some of which he’s acted in and produced. Which is awesome for you, my listeners, because while you’re waiting around for me to put out an episode, you could be discovering a world of new podcasts over at fableandfolly.com!   As if all that talent isn’t enough to squeeze into one human, Sean is also an amazing photographer. There’s something about his Levitation series of photographs that haunt me, in a good way, and I have to say it was not easy to select just one of these photos to write about. The saying a photo is worth a thousand words doesn’t do Sean’s art any justice… and, as I’ve already shared with you, it’s provided me with thousands and thousands of words.   When you get a second, my friends, make sure you take a look at the cover art for this episode to see the haunting photograph that Sean created. For those of you who can’t look just yet, let me attempt to paint the picture with words.     [Art Description:]   A girl in a spaghetti-strap, teal dress hugs her knees to her chest in front of a brown brick wall. She faces left, and we see a profile of her, eyes closed tight, pink and red highlighted dreadlocks pointing wildly in every direction.   Floating around the girl, surrounding her at shoulder height, are five floating devices: a tablet and several smart phones. Sean titled this piece Disconnected, and I could think of no better title for the story that his creation helped bring to life.   Enjoy…   [Story:]   Jennifer was hearing phantom ring tones. Despite the fact that she’d intentionally left her phone at home, her arm still instinctively reached out at least halfway to the empty dashboard mount before she realized there was no phone to be heard.   This was the third time she’d reached out to a non-existent phone. It was as if the fucking thing was a part of her body recently amputated.   It’s not that Jennifer didn’t want to bring her phone with her, but it’d be immediately confiscated as soon as she arrived at the center anyway, and so she’d figured it’d be better to leave it home; she didn’t want to worry about strangers invading her privacy… not that she had anything to hide.   There it was again; the distinct sound of her Instagram notification. Jennifer wondered if she was telepathically connected to the damned thing, as her arm automatically rose once again. She jerked it back toward her body, and huffed. If her other hand weren’t already occupied on the wheel she would’ve smacked herself.   Wouldn’t that be ironic, thought Jennifer, if I caused another accident distracted by a phantom phone? At least this time there’d be no evidence to incriminate her. She winced as the memory flashed through her mind, placed both hands firmly on the wheel, and squeezed until her knuckles were white and her concentration was on the road.   She panicked a bit when she saw the sign for exit 34; had she passed her exit?!   She glanced down at her odometer and sighed with relief as she remembered that A: she still had 30 miles to go and B: the exit numbers were counting down, not up.   Jennifer had known that driving to an unknown area without a GPS to guide her would be a challenge, but she’d done it as a teenager, back in the MapQuest days, when she’d had to print out directions on paper. Directions that didn’t magically rearrange themselves if she drove off course, she reminded herself, and then winced as horns blared in her memory. She remembered crossing three lanes of traffic in order to avoid missing an exit on her road trip to Maryland more than a decade ago. Jennifer sighed and reminded herself to be careful and alert.   The absolute worst part of this trip, however, was the silence. Usually she had an audiobook or podcast running when she drove. Occasionally she’d put upbeat music on when she was feeling down; by the time she finished belting out a couple of songs, she always felt much better. Jennifer was sure she’d be giving herself some music therapy by now… she’d tried the radio, but there was nothing to sing along to, the crackling quality was lacking, and there were more commercials than songs.   Jennifer’s circular thoughts filled the silence instead: she was broke, she was now jobless, she’d just maxed out her credit cards on this mandatory detox, and she couldn’t start fixing any of those problems until a month from now. A month from now!!!   It wasn’t like she was addicted to heroin… no one would have to hold her dreads while she puked her way back to sobriety for fuck’s sake.   The Insta notification chimed in her mind again, and Jennifer was reaching out before she could stop herself. She sighed loudly, put her hand back on the wheel, and rolled her eyes at the fact that some unknown force was calling her bluff. Maybe I am addicted to my phone, she thought.   Still, that didn’t justify the $6,000 it cost to go through this program. $6,000 down the drain… down the future drain, Jennifer corrected herself, sighing.   Jennifer felt pretty proud when she pulled into the parking lot a couple of hours later. She hadn’t gotten lost at all. Though it’s hard to get lost when you’re in the middle of nowhere and the turn offs are sparse.   The place was huge, and very modern looking; quite the opposite of what Jennifer had imagined it would be. The entire front of the building was covered in mirrored glass. In its center rose a pyramid shaped peak that stretched well above the rest of the structure; this was covered in the only glass that wasn’t mirrored. It looked more like a shortened, more angular version of a NYC office building than a rehab center. But what did a digital detox building typically look like? Jennifer knew of no others to compare it to.   Stepping inside was like putting sunglasses on, it dimmed the outside sunshine, but not enough to make you feel like you were indoors. Faint, lyricless, music played in the background, along with what sounded like a babbling brook. Jennifer noticed a waterfall that was built into one of the walls to her left. Floor cushions that looked like low love seats and couches were scattered across the floor in front of it.   Aside from the glass, everything seemed to be made out of natural elements. The floor was made of some kind of polished stone, with glimmers of an almost holographic iridescence where the light caught it. Sculpture creatures made of dried out driftwood and metal were scattered about the lobby. A crane with it’s wings spread and a fish in its mouth here, a puppy posed in a play bow over there, and what looked like a koala bear climbing a bamboo stalk in one corner.   “Welcome,” said a voice from the wall opposite the waterfall. Jennifer turned to it.   “Hi, I’m a bit early- I was afraid I’d get lost without the GPS on my phone.”   “Oh that’s no problem, let’s get you settled into your room.”   Even though Jennifer had told her she’d left her phone at home, the girl asked to go through her bags, which felt a bit demeaning. But apparently, many guests tried to sneak in digital contraband: tablets, iPods, old smartphones people claimed were no longer connected and thought should be allowed. The website had been clear about what was and wasn’t allowed – basically anything with a screen was banned.   Satisfied that Jennifer hadn’t hidden an iPod in her underwear, the girl moved on. She handed her a thick information packet, told her that orientation would be at 6 in the Oak Room, and walked her to her room.   With four hours to kill before orientation, Jennifer dropped to the bed and started leafing through the papers. She grew bored about halfway through the second page and studied the room around her. $6,000 and there wasn’t even a TV in her room. How was she going to make it through a month without Netflix?   Jennifer glanced at the clock on her nightstand, saw that only 5 minutes had passed since she’d stepped into the room, let out a lengthy sigh, and threw herself face down into a pile of pillows.   What was she going to do for the next 3 hours and 55 minutes? The panic started to tighten her throat; what if there was an emergency and she needed to call a friend? Then she started to breathe deeply as she remembered that she’d been through this scenario before and had planned accordingly.   She opened her suitcase to find all of her solutions. On top of everything was a practically blank notebook, the first page filled with her go to contacts and their numbers… when was the last time she’d manually dialed a number?   One side of Jennifer’s suitcase was stuffed with clothing and toiletries, and the other half was packed with a pile of books and art supplies. Jennifer was a doer; doing nothing was the ultimate depressant for her – and so, in a way, her suitcase was filled with anti-depressants.   Jennifer pushed her art journal and pencils aside to reveal a pile of novels. She grabbed a Carol Goodman book, The Lake of Dead Languages, and settled into the love seat to read… she couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat down to read a physical book. She “read” books all the time, but audiobooks were her medium of choice – that way she could multitask, “reading” while she walked, cleaned, cooked, and even while she was doodling sometimes. When she was caught up with everything else.   It’d been at least a decade since she’d given her total and complete attention to a book. Pinching the thickness of the pages in both hands, Jennifer had a nostalgic sense of beginnings; just the sliver of the paperback cover and the first few pages pinched between her fingers… the excitement of so many pages ahead. She remembered that giddiness every time she’d gotten a new Goosebumps book as a child.   Jennifer got lost in the book… until a loud knock startled her back into reality.   The girl who’d checked her in was standing at the door with a serene smile. “They’re waiting for you downstairs,” she said, and on a quick glance over her shoulder, Jennifer saw that it was 6:15.   As she approached the Oak Room door it didn’t take her long to figure out the origin of it’s name. Through the massive, triangular-shaped glass wall that stretched up at least four stories was the leafy top of a giant oak tree awash in golden light. The tree had to be at least 100 years old, judging from the thick trunk. Walking into the large room was like stepping outside. There was even grass on the floor… er… ground.   Though the base of the pyramid shaped room was as big as a high school gym, for some reason all of the chairs and their mostly silent occupants were all squished together in the center of the room… aaaannnd it didn’t look like there were any empty seats left.   Jennifer stopped behind the last row of chairs and mouthed the word “sorry” to the woman facing the group, before she bared her teeth, raised her eyebrows, and winced. She crossed her legs and stood with her hands clasped in the front pocket of her hoodie, avoiding eye contact with several people who glanced back at her.   “Oh good, I didn’t want to start until everyone had arrived,” said the woman in a sickly happy high-pitched tone. She wore a form fitting teal tank top and black leggings on her petite frame, and her blonde hair was twisted into a high 2-tier bun. She waved her hand rapidly saying, “there’s an empty seat up here,” and then she pointed to the front row.   Ugh, that’ll teach me to be late, Jennifer thought as she sped to get out of the spotlight, but once she was sitting down, she was grateful to have the chair. No one likes being the odd one out.   The gratitude only lasted a minute though, because although the tiny teenage girl to her left had unnecessarily scooted over when Jennifer sat down, the man on her right hadn’t budged his man spread knee until she’d wedged her own leg between his and the seat. Even then, he’d only moved an inch, keeping his knee hovering over her personal chair space.   The girl crossed her closest leg over the other, covering the rip in her jeans with a manicured hand. The black nail polish was in stark contrast to her pale skin, and the fine sprinkling of silver glitter in it did little to lessen it.   Jennifer scooted over a bit towards her, but was unable to escape the manspreader’s hovering knee.   “Ok, welcome, for those of you who don’t know,” she looked at Jennifer, “I’m Chris, and this is orientation, but it will also double as our first meditation session, so don’t anyone disappear.” she laughed at herself.   You’d actually have to disappear to escape this room without notice, Jennifer thought, as it was at least a 30-foot trek back to the door. Jennifer hadn’t seen another exit, but she hadn’t had enough time to gawk yet. She wanted to ogle the sunset lit view out the full glass wall she’d only had a chance to glance at upon entry, or up at the strange pyramid peaked ceiling, but there’d be no unrude way to look around this close to Chris… stupid front row seat. Another reason Jennifer liked to arrive to things like this early.   “I know that some of you are here of your own free will, but most of you have been given a court order for one reason or another, and to you I say don’t underestimate the power of your addiction. Yes, you are here to be rehabilitated… digital habits are just as toxic as chemical addictions. And for that reason we take our jobs here very seriously…”   Jennifer tuned Chris out as she squeaked on about rules and consequences… and then suddenly everyone was getting up and moving their chairs. She followed the manspreader’s lead, trailing behind him with her own chair. Everyone put their folded chairs into a number of wooden chests up against the far wall. Then they turned to either side to pull rolled yoga mats from matching wooden cubbies.   She picked a purple one and hustled to find a clear spot at the back of the room. As Jennifer walked through the crowd she noticed that nearly everyone here was a kid. Some might be in their 20s, but most looked they were still in high school. Aside from Chris, Jennifer guessed she was the oldest one here. Apparently 36 was a bit old to have a digital addiction.   Luckily, Jennifer was still flexible enough to cross her legs, unlike the manspreader who was struggling on his mat in front of her as she settled down. He managed to cross his ankles, but his knees wouldn’t go down further than chest level. As he continued to fight with his knees, pushing them down, only to have them bounce back up again, Jennifer felt a giggle rising up in her throat and attempted to stop it. She pressed her lips together and clamped a hand over her face, but this only forced the giggle through her nose AND through her lips in what, all together, ended up sounding like a squeaky face fart.   Jennifer suddenly felt eyes on her, and she let her face go lax and casually glanced around the room. Well if anyone was looking at her, they weren’t now; so she examined the young people, mostly girls – she noticed, around her, feeling proud that she could still twist herself into such a position.   “Make yourself comfortable and close your eyes,” Chris started, and Jennifer did so as a soothing chime resonated for several long seconds.   There was shuffling in front of her and Jennifer opened one eye to see that the manspreader had risen and was making his way to the wall, presumably to find a comfortable position on no less than three chairs. He turned around to face the room and looked directly at her as he unfolded, and then lowered himself onto a chair.   Jennifer closed her eye quickly, feeling the heat rise up into her cheeks. He’d definitely caught her staring. And she was probably glaring at him too, unintentionally, of course. She had one of those faces – what had her friend called it? Something bitch face… oh yeah, resting bitch face. She could only imagine what resting bitch face looked like with a one-eyed glare. Probably not very friendly.   Chris’s words brought her back to the present. “Focus on your breath. Pay attention to how your body feels as you breathe in… and out.”   Am I breathing normally? Jennifer wondered. She thought she noticed her heart rate going down as she slowed her breaths.   “It’s completely normal to have thoughts enter into our meditation, hear them and let them go… observe your thoughts, and as soon as you recognize them, remind yourself to come back to your breathing, focus on your inhale… and follow it through your body as you exhale… and repeat.”   Chris was silent for a few seconds.   Jennifer exhaled and wondered how long this meditation was going to last. She should definitely post an Instagram photo of this; no one would ever believe she’d sat still for longer than 5 minutes. How long had it been anyway? She should ask once they were finished so that she could have an accurate number to add to her caption… and then Jennifer realized an Instagram photo was not going to happen. She mentally smacked her palm against her forehead.   “Let your thoughts move on,” Chris suddenly reminded her, “and come back to your breath.”   Okay… Jennifer thought, breathe in, breath out… oh my god, my foot is totally asleep. How much longer are we going to sit here? She opened an eye again and glanced around without moving her head. No one else seemed uncomfortable, and she didn’t want to disrupt the silence by shuffling around.   She switched eyes and looked towards the wall. The manspreader wasn’t even trying. He was slouched against the wall, one hand on his crotch, knees spread to the max, and when her eyes finally traveled up his body, she saw that his eyes were open, a bored expression on his face. He was looking at Chris, whose own eyes were closed as she continued to breathe deeply.   Jennifer glanced back at the manspreader, but this time he was aiming his intense gaze directly at her. She automatically snapped her eye shut and winced; she’d been caught staring at him twice now. Oh. My. God. Stop looking at this guy. He probably thinks I’m a creepy cougar, Jennifer thought, but she quickly corrected herself. I’m too young to be a cougar.   “Now we’re going to do something that may be a bit uncomfortable,” Chris said, and there was a mysterious edge to her voice. “Think of an embarrassing moment… something from your childhood maybe… something that not many people in your life now would know about.”   Jennifer was immediately transported to a college classroom. She’d gotten high, maybe a little higher than she should’ve gotten, right before class. Usually it was the audience type of learning experience versus the participation kind… Jennifer took care to categorize her classes this way to make sure she didn’t get caught in a weed driven social anxiety attack, but Professor Brinkley must’ve been experimenting that day. He’d decided to have his students take turns reading aloud… only one paragraph at a time, but the text was dense with unfamiliar four and five syllable words that Jennifer had no idea how to pronounce.   As the student in front of her started to read, Jennifer quickly read ahead, trying to prepare herself for her turn. She’d internally sighed with relief when she was finished, but then the girl in front of her had gone on… she was reading the paragraph Jennifer was supposed to read. She had become frozen with shock, and suddenly it was her turn, and she was totally unprepared.   Jennifer had stumbled through the text, gripping both sides of the desk to stop her hands from shaking. She’d sounded out at least three unknown words as if she were a second-grader, then she proceeded to butcher even the parts of the English language she did know.   Jennifer couldn’t look up in the silence that followed. No one laughed or snickered… it was an uncomfortable, pitying silence, which was confirmed with the professor’s elongated, “ooookaaay.”   The heartbeat in her ears hadn’t relented its pounding until three students later.   She’d often wondered what her classmates had thought of her that day. Jennifer would be perfectly fine with the truth: she’d gotten stupidly high… but she feared it was more likely that they thought stupid was her default setting.   “Now, it’s time to forgive yourself.” Chris’s voice intruded into the memory, “step into your past as the present version of you, older, more experienced, and bring love to the child you used to be. Give that child a hug, tell them it’s ok, tell them you forgive them, tell them that you love them. See the expression on their face when they experience this forgiveness and love. Ok, it’s now time to come back to the present moment.”   Jennifer opened her eyes slowly, and unfolded her twisted legs even slower. She’d definitely need to sit there for a few minutes to let the blood flow reach her foot; to make sure the pins and needles had run their course before she tried to walk. Jennifer pretended to stretch as everyone around her began to rise, and intentionally avoided looking up, terrified of somehow being pulled back into the manspreader’s gaze again.   Chris directed everyone to the dining hall and a soft chatter filled the air and faded away behind Jennifer as the crowd left the room.   “Not as easy as it looks, is it?” A deep voice asked, and a hand reached down to her. It was the manspreader standing over her. Looking past his hand into his face, Jennifer noticed that, though he was dressed like a teenager in a white hoodie and jeans, he was a lot older than she’d realized. Maybe even older than her.   Jennifer took his hand and let him pull her to her feet, which still felt a little tingly. He held onto her hand at the end of the gesture combining it into a handshake and said, “Matt.”   “Jennifer,” she said with a tight smile.   “You a workaholic?” he asked.   “No… I don’t think so…” Jennifer said, “why?”   “Oh… I just assumed… wait. You’re not here on a court order are you?” He asked and amusement shone in his hazel gaze.   “Yeah, actually, I am.” Jennifer said shortly. And with that she turned her back to him and marched toward the dining hall.   When she smelled the tomato-sauce-drenched main course, she grabbed an apple and a banana and made her way back to the double doors, intending to eat and read back in her room. But manspreader, Matt, stepped in front of her, blocking the way.   “You want to join me for dinner?” he asked, an empty tray in one hand.   “I was actually going to go eat in my room,” Jennifer said, a hint of irritation in her voice. What was with this guy? Her earlier embarrassment around him was quickly being replaced with annoyance at his boldness.   “Ok, well, I just wanted to apologize if I offended you before… it wasn’t intentional.”   “Ok.” She said. But he was still blocking her way out. Should she walk around him?   “Sorry.” He said.   “It’s fine.” But it wasn’t fine, Jennifer thought, it was none of his business.   And then he finally stepped away, saying, “Ok, I guess I’ll see you later.”   But Jennifer didn’t answer him as she hurried out the door and back to the comfort of her room.   She read her book until her eyes were so heavy she got stuck in a loop, reading the same paragraph again and again in between bouts of wakefulness, until she finally gave up.   The next thing she knew she was sitting straight up in bed, heart thudding, her skin tacky with sweat. She’d had a nightmare, she realized… thank god it was just that. Jennifer had woken up just before she’d hit someone, someone else, she thought as she recalled the dream woman’s fear-twisted face through the rain-smeared windshield. She’d had a yellow umbrella and it had cast her skin in a shade of jaundice.   Jennifer didn’t see it happen, but the sense of speed and lack of control as she’d dropped the phone, gripped the wheel and punched the brake pedal to the floor… it made her almost certain that the hit had to be fatal.   Was this the Universe trying to warn her? Trying to make her take her “crime” more seriously? Not cool, Universe, not cool.   She let herself fall back into the pillow, which was now damp and cold and not at all comforting. The EHH, EHH, EHH of the alarm clock jarred her upright again, and once she could finally figure out how to shut the archaic thing up, Jennifer let out a long sigh. She thought of how, if she’d had her phone, she’d be woken up gently as a harp played, slowly increasing in volume as it went. She groaned as she got up; there wasn’t much time to get ready before her 1-on-1 with Chris.   Jennifer brushed her teeth furiously with one hand as she pulled socks off with the other, hopping a couple times to keep from losing her balance. The contrast of blonde on black automatically drew her gaze away from her brown eyes, and she sighed through her nose so as to avoid spewing toothpaste everywhere. She couldn’t even afford to buy a cheap bottle of dye, not unless she wanted to add to her already Everest high mountain of debt, and the pink had long since faded from her short dreadlocks.   Jennifer hadn’t taken a single selfie since… she’d thought about going with black and white photos, tried every filter there was, but nothing looked right alongside the colorful art in her feed; too off-brand.   Luckily, she didn’t have the time to dwell on it. She rinsed, spit, turned away from her reflection and its reminder of all her problems, and got in the shower.   Fifteen minutes later, Jennifer passed into Chris’s office with her clothes clinging to her still damp skin, but at least she wasn’t late, she affirmed to herself as she glanced at the clock. It was 7:29, one minute to spare.   Office was a formal word for the comfy, brightly colored room. There was no desk, no file cabinets, and it was as if a box of markers had thrown up on the walls. The glossy white walls were floor to ceiling dry erase boards, and they were almost completely covered in writing and drawings. Here and there were rectangular patches of black chalkboard paint, which were equally scribbled upon in pale pastels. An L-shaped couch, a love seat, and a few chairs were arranged in a circle that surrounded a bunch of beanbag chairs on the floor. The room looked more suited to a teenage hangout than an office. Jennifer took a seat on a vibrantly green, velvety soft sofa.   “How are you settling in Jennifer?” Chris asked from her seat on a hot pink chair; hers was equally velvety looking. Her hands were laid one atop the other in her lap.   “Well, my wake up wasn’t fun, but aside from that… fine.” Jennifer knew that no digital devices were allowed on the premises, but she’d thought for sure that an exception would be made for the people who ran this place. But even if not, shouldn’t Chris at least have a notebook, a folder to reference… something?   “Yes, you had quite the nightmare, didn’t you?”   “No,” Jennifer said, her gaze scanning above Chris’s head to a long, twisting, Chinese-style dragon drawn in red, “it wasn’t the nightmare I was talking about, it was the alarm cl—wait,” she interrupted herself, her eyes darting back to Chris, “How did you know about my nightmare? Are there hidden cameras in my room?”   “No, there are no cameras in your room,” said Chris, “along with being immoral, that would also be illegal.”   “Then… how did you know about my nightmare?”   “The same way I know about the manspreader.” Chris smiled broadly and raised her eyebrows expectantly.   “Who?” Jennifer began to mentally retrace the past 24 hours, but she couldn’t remember saying that aloud to anyone. Had she secretly been hypnotized during the meditation, caught muttering her inside jokes aloud?   “Hypnotism is something we can do here,” Chris responded, unprompted, “but I assure you, you have not been hypnotized.”   Chris paused for a moment, as if to let that sink in. Jennifer was stunned into silence.   “I hope you’ll forgive my intrusion,” Chris continued, “unfortunately, it’s the only way I’ve found to get through to most people… do you know why you’re here Jennifer?”   “Because it was this or lose my license.”   “Yes… that’s true. You’ve got three counts of texting and driving on your record… but I’m not asking you about your crime Jennifer, I’m asking if you know what you’ve come here to learn. Any idea?”   “How to promise I won’t do it again?… and mean it, since you apparently can read my mind.”   “Let’s go about this a different way. What have you experienced since you last had your phone?”   “I’ve felt… lost. Like something’s missing. Like I’m missing something.” Jennifer paused, but Chris nodded for her to continue. “I feel out of the loop. Disconnected.”   “Yes! You feel disconnected, and rightfully so. You know, smartphones have only been around for the past couple of decades, and in that time we’ve somehow conditioned ourselves to be completely reliant on them for our connection to everything.”   Jennifer couldn’t dispute that. The past day had been a challenge to say the least. She nodded.   Chris went on, “but what if I told you that you could be trained to connect to others, to this world, to this Universe, in ways that you could never imagine… in ways that would make your phone seem subpar?”   “What, you want to teach me how to read minds?” Jennifer asked doubtfully.   “You already know how to connect to others, you’ve had at least one big hit since you’ve been here.”   “What do you mean?”   “That wasn’t just a nightmare, Jennifer, it was a memory… someone else’s memory.”   Jennifer thought back to her dream. It was a bit fuzzier now, but she could still recall most of it: the phone in her hand, white screen blazing in the dimly lit interior, though the words she’d read were totally lost now, and the yellow-skinned woman with wide eyes. But wait… Jennifer went back to the phone in her hand… had it been her hand? Had it been her car? It was hard to tell. It’d been dark.   “Whose memory?”   “Well that wouldn’t be very fun, now would it?” Chris said with a smirk. “You’re here for a month, you’ll have plenty of time to figure it out.”   Jennifer headed to the dining hall after that. She walked through the food line in a daze, trying to remember the details of her nightmare. Could it really be a memory? Jennifer would’ve found that hard to believe before her strange encounter with Chris, but she also would’ve thrown mindreading into the same box; passing it off as just another sci-fi element, along with teleportation and time travel. There was no doubt, though. Unless Jennifer was truly losing it, there was no other explanation for Chris knowing about her dream… or the fact that she had internally nicknamed the manspreader.   Speak of the spreader himself, as Jennifer was exiting the line he was waving her over to his table. Her impulse was to pretend she hadn’t seen him and return to her room like she had last night, but she had so many questions about this place now, and maybe some of these other digi detoxees could answer them. At least this time he wasn’t alone, the ripped jeans girl who’d sat on the other side of her in the Oak room was at the table too.   Jennifer took a deep breath and headed toward them. “Hey,” she said with a forced smile she hoped didn’t look it. “Matt right?” she started, looking at the manspreader, but she didn’t wait for him to answer before she shifted her gaze to the girl, “I didn’t get your name.”   “Karen,” the girl said, extending her hand. Her long, almost black, hair was shiny, sleek, and straight. With her bangs, the way it hung was like a three-sided picture frame around her face, all hard edges and contrast.   “Jennifer.” She shook the girl’s hand over the table, and noticed that the black nail polish from yesterday had been replaced with fire engine red.   “We were just talking about Karen’s 1-on-1,” Matt said, “did you have yours yet?”   “Yeah, just before I came here,” Jennifer said, “wasn’t exactly what I’d expected.”   “Me neither, but the idea that we’ve somehow stumbled upon a school for psychic development makes it so much more interesting. Don’t you think?” Karen asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “I mean if going through this detox is mandatory, we may as well get something useful out of it. I’m actually excited now.”   “I mean it’d be cool, I’m not debating that… but do you think it’s even possible?” Matt countered. “I’m not entirely convinced.”   “I wasn’t either, at first,” Karen said, “but Chris knew things… she knew things I’ve never told anyone.”   “Like what?” Matt asked, a smirk on his face.   “Chris knowing is bad enough, I’m sure as hell not telling you.” Karen said looking at him like she had a bad taste in her mouth. After a pause she started again, “But, I will say that I think that whole embarrassing moment thing she made us do during the meditation was a way for her to get material.”   “Material?” Jennifer said.   “Yeah, you know, to prove this shit to us.” Karen explained.   “Well that’s not gonna work on me,” Matt replied, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest, “I couldn’t think of anything embarrassing. I was barely able to focus on meditating in the first place.”   “Well you’ll see,” Karen said assuredly, “when you go to your 1-on-1.”   Matt only shrugged and switched his gaze. “What about you, Jennifer?” he asked.   “I guess I’m still trying to absorb all of this.” She paused to eat a spoonful of bland oatmeal. She’d piled brown sugar on top and mixed it in, but barely tasted it. “My inner skeptic is still trying to convince me there’s a reasonable explanation for what just happened; but she’s having trouble finding one.”   “Yeah,” Matt agreed, “like maybe our friends and family are in on some elaborate practical joke?”   “But there’s no way,” Jennifer was shaking her head. “Chris was reading the thoughts in my head as I was thinking them.”   “Yeah, she did the same thing to me.” Karen said. “Look, I’m not saying I’m entirely convinced we’ll be able to do this mind reading thing anytime soon. But I have no doubt that Chris has some crazy skills… makes total sense now why we have to be here for so long… but yeah, I’m willing to give it a go. Think of what we could do.”   “Yeah…” Matt’s smirk returned, wider than ever, “Well I guess only time will tell.”   They were all quiet for awhile as they finished eating.   “Hey we still have an hour until the next group meeting,” Matt said. “Who’s up for a walk?”   “I’m down,” said Karen quickly, “the weather’s supposed to be gorgeous today.”   Matt and Karen both looked at Jennifer expectantly. “Ok, you’ve convinced me,” she said on a sigh.   “Well don’t let us twist your arm,” Matt said, but he smiled.   “No, I could use the fresh air, and who knows, this could be the last of the nice weather, we should definitely take advantage of it.”   ***   Matt was much taller than Karen and Jennifer, and he stopped several times to let them catch up to him before he found their pace. It was still a bit chilly out, but the sun on their backs was comfortably warm, and grew warmer as it rose.   “So, Karen,” Matt began, “you said earlier that this is mandatory for you…” he glanced at her before continuing, “care to indulge our curiosity.”   Karen shrugged. “Sure, I’ve got nothing to hide. It’s kinda stupid actually. Long story short, I got my three strikes and here I am. But it’s impossible not to text and drive when most of your “driving,” she used air quotes, “is actually idling in dead stopped traffic, ya know? Plus, I can’t do my job without my phone, I’m an Uber driver… so in reality, I never actually texted anyone. My dash mount broke and I had an unlucky week with cops, what can I say? What about you?”   So apparently Karen was older than she looked too, because Jennifer was pretty sure you had to be at least 21 to be an Uber driver.   “I checked myself in voluntarily,” Matt said, “but not until after I had a wake up call.” He paused for two or three paces, then continued on a bit reluctantly. “I’m kind of a workaholic. I was driving out to dinner after a late night at work, it was raining, pouring actually, and I was waiting for an important email. My phone went off, and it was just so automatic the way I grabbed for it… anyway, I took one hand off the wheel at the same time I hit a stretch of deep water. I dropped the phone as soon as I started hydroplaning, but it happened so fast, and before I had both hands on the wheel again I’d already done a 180 and was flying off the road. The next thing I knew I’d slammed sideways into a tree.”   “Wow,” Jennifer stopped walking, “were you hurt?”   “Not at all, but I can’t stop myself from wondering what could’ve happened if there was another car nearby… what if I’d hurt someone else? Killed someone? And all because of a stupid email? I’d never be able to forgive myself.”   “Well, you didn’t,” Karen gave Matt a friendly pat on the back, “and you’re here to make sure it doesn’t happen again, right? So don’t worry about it.”   Matt nodded and they started walking again. The path they’d taken looped around a large pond, and they were nearly back to where they’d started again.   “I worry about the same thing,” Jennifer broke the silence. She hadn’t planned on airing out her own skid marks, but Matt’s unexpected vulnerability made Jennifer feel like she owed it to him to be honest herself. “Though… I have to admit I don’t think it has anything to do with needing to digitally detox.” Jennifer started, she was about to bring up the nightmare since that was the main instigator of her recent fears, but she quickly decided against it. If that nightmare was a memory like Chris said, it most likely belonged to someone here, and who was she to tell someone else’s story. Plus, it had an uncomfortable number of similarities to Matt’s story. Could that be a coincidence? Was her dream off? Was he hiding part of the story?   “I actually did hit someone.” Jennifer admitted, and Matt and Karen both stopped simultaneously to turn toward her. “He was fine,” she quickly continued, a bit defensively, “but the fact is, it would’ve happened whether I had my phone with me or not.” Jennifer could probably squeeze between the two of them and keep walking, and that was what she wanted to do most, but she also didn’t want it to look like she was hiding anything either, so she stopped too.   “I was pulling out of this gas station. It’s on a busy road, so you can’t make a left there, but there’s a yield sign to go right. Sometimes you get lucky and catch a gap in traffic when the light down the road changes, but most of the time you have to sit there and wait.” Jennifer paused here as if her audience needed time to paint the scene in their heads. “So I was waiting and waiting, and my phone went off; it was a text from my friend checking on my ETA, so I tapped the screen to read it. Then I told Siri to text her back that I was on my way. I looked to the left and saw there was finally a gap I could cut into, I hit the gas as the last car was passing in front of me, but as I turned my head to face forward there was something in front of me, and I slammed on my brakes to stop from hitting it. But it was too late. My car jerked forward a couple of feet and stopped, and suddenly there was a man in front of me sprawled in the road.   “I tried to help him, but he got up all on his own before I could make it to him. He was furious, waving his arms at me, screaming that he saw me looking down at my phone. He called the police. And sure enough, they believed him as soon as they saw the time on my last text matched the time he’d reported the accident. It didn’t help that I already had a couple of texting and driving tickets on my record.   “What pisses me off the most though is that I was trying to do better! I got one of those stupid mounts so I could be ‘hands free’ and I hadn’t typed out a single text since my last ticket. And I wasn’t even driving!!!” Jennifer took a moment to breathe away her fury.   “Plus,” she continued in a much calmer voice, “I’ve turned out of that parking lot so many times. I never look right. There’s not even a shoulder on that road. It’s not the kind of road you should be out taking a stroll on. So I’m sure I would’ve hit him anyway.”   Karen was suddenly laughing, “So,” she started, but she was cracking up and couldn’t spit out the words. “So,” she said again once she could get control over herself, “you mean to tell me that guy saw you NOT look at him and decided to walk in front of your car anyway?” Again, laughter burst out of her, and Matt and Jennifer couldn’t help but be infected by it, letting out a few of their own chuckles.   “Yeah,” Jennifer said starting to catch a bit of Karen’s contagious laughter, “probably not his brightest moment.”   “That guy wouldn’t last two seconds in the city.” Karen said with a shake of her head.   Matt was chuckling a bit now too, though Jennifer could tell he was trying not to. “We are such assholes for laughing about this.”   “Why?” Karen said, “It’s not like he died… of anything other than embarrassment, maybe.”   “Ya know, that’s probably so true,” Jennifer said, “I never said it at the time, but I thought he was totally overreacting. I mean, if he had the energy to jump up and wave his arms around at me the way he was…” Jennifer was laughing again. “I’ve seen toddlers with less energetic temper tantrums.”   The laughter and the rest of their walk wound down as the trio reached the end of the trail. The paved pathway spread out into a parking lot before them.   “Just in time,” Matt said, glancing at his watch, “we have 10 minutes until our next group meeting.”   “Perfect,” said Karen, “I’m gonna grab something from my car quick, and run it over to my room.” She veered to the left towards a bright red Mazda RX8 and opened the passenger side door.   Something about the car was familiar to Jennifer, but with the only eye-catching paint job in a lot full of neutral blacks, whites, and silvers, she assumed she must’ve noticed it when she pulled in yesterday.   “You can use that for Uber?” Matt asked. “I thought all of their cars needed to have four doors.”   “Well, technically it has four doors,” Karen said as she reached in behind the seat and pulled open a surprise back door. “But you’re right, this is my personal car, and not at all Uber-approved, which is good, because if anyone threw up in this car, I’d be pissed.” She grabbed a small storage container out of the back seat and gently bumped both doors closed with her hip.   As Karen got closer Jennifer recognized the case’s colorful contents. “That’s a lot of nail polish!”   “Yeah, well, we’ve got a lot of time to kill,” Karen shot back, glancing at Jennifer’s nails as she did, “oooooohhhwww, you’ve got some blank canvases for me.” She raised her eyebrows in question.   “If you really want to,” Jennifer agreed half-heartedly, “I mean, there’s not much there—”   “Oh please, help a girl out,” Karen pleaded, “I’m doing my own daily, and it doesn’t take up nearly as much time as I need it to.”   “Ok,” Jennifer chuckled. Internally she wondered how she was going to keep from poisoning herself the next time she unconsciously bit her nails.   “You think we scared the big guy off?” Karen asked, and Jennifer noticed that Matt had somehow gotten ahead of them. He was already pulling open the glass doors some 50 feet ahead of them.   “Maybe… but he doesn’t seem like the type to scare easily,” Jennifer replied.   “I’m sure I could fix that with one ride.” Karen winked.   “I hope you’re talking about a ride in your car.”   “Of course! What kind of girl do you think I am?” As Karen made her way across the wide open lobby toward her room, she giggled in a way that made Jennifer wonder.   A few minutes later they’d joined the rest of the group in the Oak Room and were once again preparing themselves for another guided meditation.   When Matt tried to slink back to his comfort zone against the wall, Chris followed him. She gently pulled him to his feet, lifted the chair he’d been sitting on, and folded it. She looked up at him, paused. Matt had a shit-eating grin on his face. They were too far away to hear, but in a flash Matt’s forehead furrowed in shocked confusion, holding his mouth open like the shit had fallen right out. Chris turned around, bringing the chair closer to the group. She had a serene smile on her lips, but her eyes wore a cockier expression, like they were screaming “HA! Gotcha!”   “Does anyone want to go get something warmer to wear?” she addressed the group as she pulled a sweatshirt on over her tank and returned to her mat. “Once the sun’s gone it’ll get pretty chilly in here.”   A few people looked upward to the endlessly blue sky that shone through the clear panes above, but nobody moved from their seats.   The pyramid shaped room was basically a green house and Jennifer was grateful for the toasty temperature. Although it was comfortable outside while Jennifer was walking, once she’d slowed down in the parking lot, any hint of a breeze had bit into her skin.   “Anyone?” Chris tried again, but still no one budged from their seats. “Ok, then let’s begin, shall we?” She gave her tiny bell a tap and a familiar chiming vibrated through the large space for several seconds.   Chris led the group to focus on their breathing as she did before, and after a few minutes of that she guided them into full relaxation. “Notice how the top of your head feels, relax your scalp. Feel any tension in your face… and let it go. Let the skin on your forehead go slack, relax your cheeks, your jaw…” and she went on to bring attention to every bit of Jennifer’s tense body. Odd how you didn’t even realize your jaw was clenched until someone told you to unclench it, Jennifer thought. By the time Chris had reached her toes, Jennifer was so relaxed she felt like her skin had melted off; but in a good way.   “Focus on the sounds seeping into your ears,” Chris said softly, “let the noise gradually get louder, until you start to recognize it…”   The orangey glow that’d shown through Jennifer’s closed eyelids gradually faded to black. At the same time the staticky sound of nothing grew louder until she knew what it was. Rain. Jennifer opened her eyes to confirm it. The blue above had been replaced by a dark gray and it was pouring.   Only Chris still had her eyes closed, everyone else was looking up in wonder. Jennifer hugged herself and rubbed her arms as the temperature quickly dropped.   Without opening her eyes, Chris said, “I warned you that it would get chilly.” Then, after a pause, “Well I guess we’re done meditating for now,” she said and finally opened her eyes to look at everyone in front of her.   The group broke for lunch and afterwards, Chris divided them up. Most everyone had taken the opportunity to bundle themselves up before returning to the chilly, gray Oak Room, but it turned out that only half of them would be needing the extra clothing.   As Chris directed them all to form two neat lines, Jennifer felt like she was back in elementary school about to march out to recess. She was at the back of the line, Karen stood in front of her, and Matt towered in the next spot. But that’s where the nostalgia ended, as Chris instructed the group to turn sideways to face the opposing line. There just so happened to be an even amount of people in the room, and Chris told them all to pair off with the person directly in front of them.   Jennifer was mildly disappointed, as she seemed to already be losing her recently found companionship with this forced partnering. She walked toward the blonde girl across from her and offered a weak half smile. Jennifer was trying to be warm, but she had a feeling her face was suggesting more of a well-I-guess-I-don’t-have-a-say-in-this look. It was the same kind of smile one of two team leaders in a high school gym class might give you when it’s his turn to pick and you’re the last one standing.   “Hi,” Jennifer tried to warm up her smile as she extended a hand to the girl, “I’m Jennifer.” The girl reminded her of Baby Spice, minus the slutty attire and pigtails.   “Emma,” she said quietly.   No way, Jennifer thought, wasn’t that Baby Spice’s real name? She wished for the instant gratification of a quick Google, and she wondered if she’d ever stop wanting to Google and Instagram things every hour on the hour.   The brief introduction was all they had time for, though, because Chris was already separating them again. Those who were from Emma’s line were directed to make themselves comfortable beneath the oak tree, while Jennifer, Karen, Matt, and the rest of their group followed Chris back to her teen hangout of an office.   When they walked in the room seemed brighter than it had been earlier, and at a second glance, Jennifer realized it was because the shiny, white walls had been wiped clean.   “Take a seat for now,” Chris said as she spread her arms out and stepped to the side.   “We’re going to do a mini-meditation.” She continued as Jennifer planted herself beside Karen on the velvety green couch. “By now, your partners have been given their own instructions… to send you a message. Your job is to receive that message.”   A few people were exchanging skeptically raised eyebrows, one guy rolled his eyes shaking his head slowly back and forth, someone nearby shrugged their shoulders at him and returned their attention to Chris, who was making her way to an empty beanbag chair towards the room’s center. She practically fell into it on one arm, stretched herself out like a cat, and crossed her ankles.   “Before we begin, I just want you all to know that you can feel free to get up at any time. These messages can be fleeting, and as soon as you sense something, I encourage you to note it on the walls.”   Everyone started looking around the room, a couple with confused looks on their faces. “They’re dry erase boards,” Chris clarified before anyone could ask, “you’ll find markers scattered around, take your pick. Any words, images, shapes, feelings, sounds… anything that comes to you, make sure to record it on the wall. This is a way to communicate more than it’s a test of your artistic capabilities… so please don’t hold back. We welcome chicken scratch and stick figures.”   Chris paused as she looked around the room with a smirk on her face, and Jennifer wondered if she might be waiting for her audience to laugh. “Any questions?” she finally asked.   Jennifer had a few: Are you serious right now? How do you expect us to do that exactly? Is this for real, or have I somehow found myself in an American accented episode of Black Mirror?, but they all came out sounding incredulous in her mind, so she remained silent.   When no one uttered a word, Chris went on, “Close your eyes and clear your mind by focusing on your breath, like we’ve been doing, and once you’re relaxed, bring your attention to your partner. Imagine them sitting in the grass beneath the Oak tree, you’re standing in front of them, you look down at your hands and notice that they’re semi-transparent; you’re in the Oak Room in spirit.” Chris quickened her pace, “now merge into your partner, become one with them, feel what they’re feeling, hear what they’re hearing…”   Despite the energy in Chris’s voice, it seemed to be getting more distant in Jennifer’s ears, and suddenly she heard another voice… it was slightly familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Imagine them in your mind’s eye, whisper your message, whisper your message, whisper your message…” but now that voice was fading away too, and Jennifer was sitting down on top Emma, falling into her body—   A red umbrella, it’s handle up in the air, flashed into Jennifer’s mind, and though she saw no hand holding it steady, it was balanced perfectly like a non-spinning top. And before she even knew what she was doing, Jennifer found herself at the board drawing what she’d seen. When she was done, she was embarrassed to see several sets of eyes staring at her curiously. She quickly made her way back to the couch, noting on the way that nobody else had drawn a thing… Jennifer’s upside-down umbrella was the only image that graced the walls.   “Very good,” Chris mouthed to her, and then out loud, “I’m going to give you 5 more minutes to focus on the message your partners are sending you, and then I’m going to ask you all to doodle your findings on the board… whether or not you think you’ve received anything.”   Someone sighed loudly, frustrated. Jennifer let out her own sigh; though hers was one of relief.   As everyone else focused with furrowed brows, Jennifer reimagined the experience she’d just had. It was a strange thing to admit, but this vivid umbrella had felt like it’d come from outside of her. She’d always had a vivid imagination, could create and see things in her mind’s eye… but she couldn’t trace this ‘vision’ – for lack of a better term – back through any stream of consciousness that’d come from her own thoughts. It was like a unicorn darting out from a herd of elephants.   “Ok,” Chris called out, “time’s up. Whether you think you have answers or not, go on, grab some markers and head to a clean space on the wall.”   A chorus of sighs and groans sounded as everyone stood and trudged over to the boards.   “You haven’t failed yet, so don’t make assumptions,” Chris said, “just write or draw the first thing that pops into your head. This is your first attempt at something you’ve probably never done before, and just like with any other skill, some of you will find your strengths in different areas. We’re all like radios, and you’ll find that you tune into certain stations more easily than others. Right now we’re just experimenting with the dial to see what we can pick up on.”   Karen had a blue marker and was rapidly scribbling a manifesto in tiny letters. Jennifer couldn’t read any of it from her spot on the couch. Next to Karen, Matt was adding pigtails to one of the 5 stick figures he’d drawn. A few others were adding their own embellishments to the wall, but more than half of the class stood stationary in front of a blank space.   “Don’t think about it,” Chris said to those paralyzed people, and she snapped her fingers as she went on, “first thing you think right now, put it on the board. We’re just playing a game here. There’s no penalty for a wrong answer. The only way you can fail here is if you don’t try.” That finally got the few remaining stragglers to add their own hasty additions in an effort to return to their seats quickly.   “Good job everyone.” Chris made eye contact with each and every person in the room before she finally dismissed them to lunch. Apparently they’d be going over their work once they’d reassembled later that afternoon. Jennifer looked forward to that with a mixed sense of excitement and dread, like she was just cresting the peak of the tallest point on a rollercoaster, waiting for the inevitable drop.   Karen looped her arm around Jennifer’s and leaned into her, “if we hurry up and eat we’ll have enough time to do our nails before the next meet,” she whispered conspiratorially.   ***   “So what was all that you were writing on the board?” Jennifer asked as she stretched her arm out to Karen.   Karen applied a mauve polish to Jennifer’s pointer finger in three quick, neat strokes and moved on to her middle finger. Without looking up she said, “The lyrics to a song that was running through my head.”   “What song?”   “Let it Go.”   “From Frozen?”   “Yup.” She was already done painting the nails on Jennifer’s right hand, and reached out for her left.   “Do you think that has anything to do with your partner’s ‘message?’ ”   “I dunno.” Then after a pause and another couple of painted fingernails, “but I guess we’ll find out,” Karen said finishing off on Jennifer’s pinky and finally looking up. She shrugged. “The real question is,” she said as she rummaged through her box of polish and pulled out a trio of bottles, one after the other, and laid them out on the bedspread in between them, “Red Red Wine, Lotus, or Garnet Star?”   Jennifer hunched over and squinted at them, the hues were nearly indiscernible in the dim indoor light. “What’s wrong with the color you have on now?” she asked as she picked them up and twisted to get a better look beneath the lampshaded light.   “Uh, they’re chipped,” Karen said, in a way that implied Jennifer was a bit thick, and thrust her ring finger towards her to prove it.   Again, Jennifer found herself in a game of find the difference searching Karen’s pristine nail for a defect. Finally she noticed a minuscule amount of missing polish on one corner of her squarely shaped nails. “Ahh,” Jennifer said, returning her gaze to the trio of dark purpley reddish colors in her hand. “This may seem like a dumb question, but, why not just paint over the chip? Or just redo that one nail?”   “I mean I might in a pinch, if I had somewhere to be,” Karen snorted, “but what else do we have to do?”   Jennifer nodded and handed her the color labeled “Lotus.” All three colors were too dark in Jennifer’s opinion, but that one was a shade brighter than the others.   As Karen silently began scrubbing at her nails with a cotton ball, Jennifer blew on her own nails, contemplating whether or not she should pursue the topic further. Karen seemed completely uninterested in the strange exercise they’d just performed, as if they’d just come out of a math class where they were learning obvious facts like two plus two equals four, and it was all mundane enough to be forgotten. But Jennifer had experienced something profound; something unexplainable. She’d had an out of body experience. She’d had a vivid vision! Like she was straight out of the pages of some supernatural thriller, playing the role of the reluctant psychic being drawn into a murder mystery. Even though the validity of what she’d seen had yet to be officially confirmed, Jennifer held a strange certainty that it would be.   [Conclusion:]   Don’t worry, my friends, there’s much more to come. If you’re listening to this in the week that it goes live, you can expect Part 2 of Disconnected next week. If you’re listening to this from the future, it’s you’re lucky day, and you can dive into Part 2 right now!   Thank you to Sean Howard for inspiring me with your art and for your generosity in sharing it with us as this podcast’s cover art. Please, please, please, check that out when you get a minute, and visit Sean over at fableandfolly.com to discover new fiction podcasts. I’d recommend you check the show notes to find a link to the rest of Sean’s Levitation series, too, I promise you won’t be sorry!   Much love goes to my Patrons Jennifer, Matt, Karen, and Chris whose continued support for this show is much appreciated. Words seem a dim representation for my gratitude, but I hope you all know that it’s there in a big way.   I have a bit more to share about the kind people my characters were named after at the end of Part 2, but for now, it’s time for me to get crackin’ so I don’t leave ya’ll hangin’ for too long.   I’ll be bok, I hope you’ll hear me there!

Today’s episode was actually inspired by an artist who deleted his Instagram account. Waht-waht. That’s what I get for taking so long to make this show happen. So that means I can’t get in touch with him to use his work on the cover. But exactly a year after I’d drafted that story, at my annual creativity retreat…   [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit https://rebekahnemethy.com/artink14 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Special thanks to Lynelle Eck and Ana Kuprava for supporting Art Ink on Patreon!   Check out Lynelle Eck’s children’s book A Zoo for You.   Listen to my favorite episode of All Beings Considered on Spotify: The Great Sheep Rambo   Artist: the mysterious @daniel.macro on Instagram Title of Art: Untitled ladybug on a dandelion seed Link to Original Art: https://www.instagram.com/p/BnotD2sFsI7/ Featured on Curated Instagram Feed: @magic_marvels   Cover Artist: Rebekah Nemethy Title of Art: Spotted Cucumber Beetle Artist’s Website: rebekahnemethy.com Instagram: @rebekahnemethy   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs     Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Hello my fellow artists, art lovers, and storytellers. I am thrilled to welcome you back, and welcome myself back to a new art-inspired adventure today. After the long, drawn out construction of my new voiceover booth, I’m even more thrilled to have more time to get this podcast schedule back on track.   If you listened all the way through the last episode you know that I had a limited time offer on Patreon last month for all new subscribers, and I want to give a big shout out as well as virtual hugs to those of you who signed up to support the show! As promised, all of my upcoming characters are named after, and in tribute to, my generous supporters. Today’s story features characters named after Lynelle Johnson Eck and Ana Kuprava. You ladies rock! Thank you!   If you missed out on the special offer, don’t worry, you can still get quite a few perks for becoming a Patron. And I wanted to let you all know about a new goal I have for the show. Right now Art Ink comes out 1 or 2 times per month, but if you want more we can totally make that happen. Once I reach 500 supporters I’ll be able to dedicate the time needed to crank out a weekly show. So go ahead and show me that’s what you want by pledging your support today at rebekahnemethy.com/patreon or share the show with a friend and help Art Ink find more listeners who can help.   Ok, so today’s episode was actually inspired by an artist who deleted his Instagram account. Waht-waht. That’s what I get for taking so long to make this show happen. So that means I can’t get in touch with him to use his work on the cover. But exactly a year after I’d drafted that story, at my annual creativity retreat, I made a photo that just so happened to work perfectly for the same story and I figured that was a sign not to scrap it.   I’ll describe both photos for you and I’ll give you a link in the shownotes to see the original photo by the mysterious “@daniel.macro” where, at least at the time of this recording, it’s still featured on a curated photography feed on Instagram.   [Art Description:]   The original photo is a close up photo of a fluffy dandelion and a ladybug. The flower’s bare dotted center, which is missing seeds on its top half, fills up the frame’s top left quarter. Wrapped around the edge of that center is an elliptical band of brown seeds still clinging to the flower. The fluffy parts of the bluish white seeds are mostly out of focus throughout the rest of the photo, giving it an overall dreamy feel. But a couple of seeds are sharp, and crawling up the stalk between the fluff and the flower’s center is a red ladybug.   Immediately when I saw this photo I thought of wishes. And I wondered what a ladybug would wish for. As I did some quick research, I discovered that many of the bugs I had previously thought were ladybugs were totally different species. When I dug a bit deeper I found that some of these beetles, like the spotted cucumber beetle, weren’t even carnivorous like their ladybug cousins who are reveled by gardeners for their hunting abilities, but instead are more often considered pests.   As you already know, those notes remained untapped, until a year later, when I happened to come across a spotted cucumber beetle while I was photographing some interesting flowers. I spent at least an hour with him, and I got several amazing shots, but I’ll just describe my favorite, the one you can find on the cover of this episode in case you don’t get a chance to check it out.   The background of my photo is soft, made up of a variation of greens that blend into yellows. Two pink flower petals are coming into the frame from the bottom right corner, and a green spotted cucumber beetle rests toward the left side of the topmost petal. Now that I’m comparing the two insects up close and side by side, I can see their differences. Ladybugs are rounder, and their spots are patterned differently. This green beetle has 3 neat rows of four black spots all lined up perfectly, his body is more oval and elongated, and his antennae are a bit longer.   But… just forget about all of those differences… because they’re totally going to ruin my story!   Let’s just pretend in this world we’re about to enter into, that ladybugs and cucumber beetles look exactly the same, but are just bugs of a different color.   I hope you enjoy, The Ladybug’s Wish.   [Story:]   “No!!! Don’t eat me, please!”   Those were the last words Lynelle heard right before she crunched down on the little mite.   “Am I a monster?” she asked herself as she slowly cleaned her antennae, afterwards.   It wasn’t like Lynelle wanted to eat other bugs, but a ladybug’s got to eat. As it was, she’d cut back so much on her meals, that she feared she might be slowly starving herself. Most of her peers ate dozens of mites every day, sometimes even up to 100 of them, and it’s no surprise that after eating only half of that, Lynelle’s tummy still ached for more. But she just couldn’t bring herself to kill another innocent insect.   “If you make another pass over those antennae, you’re likely to rub your shell away,” called a sweet [southern] voice from above.   Lynelle had been reliving the moments leading up to her last meal on repeat, the mite’s haunting pleas for his life echoing as if it were trapped in a cave of infinite depth. She stopped cleaning her antennae. “Oh, hi Ana,” she said, looking up.   Ana was resting atop a tiger lily, her iridescent blue wings shimmering in the sunlight as she slowly fluttered them. She brushed the pollen off of her front legs and cleaned her own antennae.   Lynelle noticed that the sun had moved quite a bit since the last time she’d looked up. “I guess I just got lost in my head for awhile.”   “What’s the matter Miss Lynelle?... why don’t you climb on up here and tell me what’s bothering you?” Ana asked. Then she fluttered up into the air a bit, and then down to rest on a lower orange lily.   Lynelle sighed, but then cracked open her red-spotted armor to let her own wings carry her. She landed atop the fluff of a nearby dandelion, and tried to pretend that she didn’t hear the mites screaming beneath her.   “Lady-hunter!” one of them shrieked, and Lynelle could feel the vibrations as several bugs escaped down the stalk below her.   “That’s what’s wrong,” Lynelle gestured toward the retreating mites with one of her legs, “I’m a monster. Everyone fears me.”   “Well everyone’s got to eat, my dear,” Ana replied, “and your kind eat mites.”   “But what if I don’t want to be my kind anymore? What if I want to change?” Lynelle was silent for a while, but then she suddenly had an idea, “You’ve changed Ana, you used to be a caterpillar and now you’re a butterfly, can’t you teach me to change like you have?”   “I’m… I’m not really sure I can.” Ana said, but then her concentrated expression lightened with a smile. “I don’t think I can help you turn you into a butterfly, but perhaps… perhaps you can make a wish.”   “A wish?” Lynelle said doubtfully.   “Yes, I always hear the gardener telling her son about the power dandelions have to make wishes come true!” Ana explained excitedly.   “Dandelions?” Lynelle looked down at the fluffy surface she was standing on.   “Yes! Whenever they’re out here she tells him to pick all of the dandelions, make a wish, and blow all the seeds off the stalk to make it come true. And I’ve also heard her say that the more dandelions he picks, the more likely it is that his wish will come true.” Ana concluded confidently.   “I guess… it… couldn’t… hurt to try,” Lynelle said slowly, “but what would I wish for?”   “You could wish to transform into a spotted cucumber beetle,” Ana suggested, “then you wouldn’t have to eat mites anymore.”   “What a great idea Ana!” Lynelle beamed. It might be hard to learn how to be a different bug altogether like a butterfly, but aside from eating vegetables and having a green shell instead of a red one, spotted cucumber beetles were very similar to ladybugs. She’d still be able to fly and walk the same way. She’d hardly have to relearn anything at all. If only she could guarantee her wish would come true.   Lynelle looked across the flowerbed, excited to see there were plenty of fluffly dandelions to wish on.   She jumped up into the air, cracking her wings as she held on tight to the fluffy floor at her feet and pulled. Without much effort, a single seed loosened, and Lynelle wished hard. She imagined a green shell. She imagined baby mites sliding down her shell and screaming, not in fear, but in delight. She imagined munching on cucumbers, and melons, and squash without guilt. She imagined what it would feel like to finally be full again.   “Ana,” Lynelle said as she began tugging on another seed, “can you help me?” A large clump of the fluffy seeds came free this time, and she floated around Ana on a twisting breeze, leaping off before it carried her too far away. “There are a lot of dandelions here and I figure two wishers are better than one.”   “Of course, darlin’,” Ana said, and she took flight.   The two of them set off and got to work wishing, defluffing every dandelion in sight, and soon the air throughout the garden was full of floating, flying seeds.   As the sun dropped down toward the horizon behind the tree line, the light quivered to the beat of leaves dancing in the breeze. Backlit seeds illuminated like magical orbs in the golden light.   A few hours later Lynelle dropped to the ground, exhausted, and tucked in her wings for the night. She sighed as she watched Ana fly away.   ***   Lynelle slowly blinked herself awake as a brighter, newer spectrum of sunshine sparkled through the morning dew. Birdsong made its way into her ears, pulling her further out of her dream world. She’d dreamt she was riding dandelion seeds through a tornado, spinning round and round in chaotic delight.   Her stomach rumbled and she groaned, now fully awake.   A line of mites marched by and a couple of them looked at her and… could this be right?... smiled at her. Lynelle squinted, trying to narrow in her focus, but then her face went slack as she realized something even more odd: none of them were running away or screaming.   “Could it really have happened?” Lynelle whispered to herself, “Did my wish come true?”   After the mites had passed and Lynelle could finally rouse herself out of her stupor, she climbed up a blade of grass with a plump dewdrop at the top. As her weight shifted the grass the dewdrop swiftly slid down past her giving her a brief glimpse of her reflection. It was just a flash, but it was a flash of green, not red.   Lynelle leapt up into the air as the droplet splattered on the ground below and soaked into the parched soil. Her shell split open above her head like two umbrellas, and her wings released carrying her upward. She could just make out the top edge of her shell if she peered up at it… and it was green!   Lynelle did several victory spirals and finally crash-landed into the soft funnel of a tiger lily. Flying was never her best skill and, apparently, that hadn’t changed with her transformation.   Pollen clung haphazardly along Lynelle’s antennae and face, but she was unharmed. Her tummy gurgled again and this time she got excited anticipating the garden full of fruits and veggies that awaited her.   A shadow passed overhead and a faint vibration resonated from the flower and through Lynelle’s legs. Ana’s pretty face appeared in the lily’s opening as Lynelle made her way back outside.   “Oh, Ana, look!” Lynelle said, “It worked! It really worked! Look at me! I’m a cucumber beetle!”   Ana smiled knowingly, “Of course it worked.”   “Thank you so much for helping me,” Lynelle said, “I couldn’t have done it without you. But I’m absolutely famished, so I’m heading into the vegetable garden.”   “Of course you couldn’t have,” Ana muttered beneath a smile, but Lynelle was already flying away and hadn’t heard her.   “I’ll see you later!” Lynelle called back to her.   ***   Not much later Lynelle took one last bite of the cucumber she’d been chomping on, lazily let go of her grip, and slid down the vegetable’s long side on her belly to land heavily on her feet at the ground.   After gorging herself on watermelon and squash and then finally cucumber, Lynelle felt so full she could hardly move. Despite the slight physical discomfort, though, she was grateful for the weight that was lifted from her mentally. No longer did she have to feel guilty for eating. No longer would she have to choose between feeling hunger pangs or the equally sharp pain of stealing another’s life.   As Lynelle was resting and reveling in the events of the past two days, she heard a faint sound that was getting louder fast. Giggles mixed with the delightful screeches of children at play as several tiny mites came sliding down the cucumber and landed on Lynelle’s back.   “Woah, that was fun!” said one of the kids.   “Let’s do it again!” said another.   “Don’t you even think about it!” said a reprimanding voice from high above.   Lynelle looked up to see a larger mite briskly making her way down the cucumber as fast as her little legs would carry her.   “How many times have I told you, sliding is dangerous! And what if you had run into a predator down here instead of this nice beetle?” she paused to look at Lynelle and gave her an apologetic smile. “I’d never have been able to get to you in time.”   Lynelle grinned back at her.   “Come down this instant,” the momma mite said, “and don’t you dare—” but before she could finish her sentence the kids were already gleefully sliding down Lynelle’s back.   “Weeeee!” they cried out, and Lynelle was stunned into silence. She couldn’t believe that her daydream of making friends with the mites was literally happening in real life—down to the smallest detail.   “Eww, what’s that green goop on your back?” one of the children said, jarring Lynelle out of her thoughts.   “I dunno, but it’s all over you too,” another giggled out.   “All of you, please come here. Right this instant.” Their mom said again, but her tone had changed. There was a quaver in her voice that made it sound less like a demand and more like a desperate plea. She was staring, wide eyed at Lynelle’s shell.   One kid followed his mother’s gaze and when his eyes hit their destination his face instantly transformed, reflecting the same shocked expression she wore.   “Lady-hunter!!!” the little mite screamed. A wave of panic swept over the group and they all scuttled away.   Lynelle tried to call after them. “Wait, what’s wrong? What did I do?” But her confused words were no doubt drowned out by their frenzied screams… not that they would have stopped and answered her if they had heard her… not in the spooked state they were in.   Had her wish been revoked? Had her time run out so soon? Had she already lost all she’d thought she’d gained? How else would they have known about the predator she’d transformed from?   Lynelle cracked her shell and clumsily flew upwards; all that she’d eaten was weighing her down. She expected to see red when she looked up, but no, her shell was still green… at least the bit of it that she could see.   She needed a dewdrop to know for sure though, to confirm that she was still the bug she wanted to be. And there wouldn’t be any dewdrops until morning… unless… unless the gardener would be out soon with her watering can. Lynelle wasn’t sure if the gardener had been out yet, but sometimes there was some leftover water in the can, and if there was, that would be just fine.   Her flight was wobbly and strenuous, but she was determined to find out what was going on.   Lynelle landed on the edge of the watering can with a huff of a relief and peered inside. The sunlight was hitting her perfectly and her reflection shone bright and colorful against the dark surface of the water below. Her shell was still green.   Perplexed, Lynelle carefully rotated herself to look at the other side, and as she did so she remembered that this was the side the kids had slid down.   And there it was: the cause of the little bugs’ panic. Even as thin as it was, the bold red popped out against the pale green like a flashlight on a moonless night, and it spanned the whole height of her shell.   A light breeze fluttered across Lynelle’s body and Ana appeared beside her, the slightest ripple passed over them in the water below, making Ana’s blue iridescence seem even more magical as it wavered.   Lynelle looked up at her miserably. “Wishes don’t come true,” she said, “I’m still the same old ladybug.” She gestured to her reflection in the smooth black pool below and sighed.   “I was afraid you’d find out sooner rather than later,” Ana said.   “You did this?”   “Well, I had a bit of help from some ants, but it was my idea, yes.”   “But… why?”   “Are you hungry Lynelle?”   “No.”   “Did you eat any mites?”   “No,” she drew out the word as the realization dawned on her.   “Wishes start from the inside,” Ana said. “But when we believe we can’t change because of outside circumstances, that belief keeps our inner power locked up tight.” She paused for a moment to let that sink in. “What we believe on the inside is what changes the outside. Trying to do it the other way around, as you can see, is a temporary solution to an ongoing problem. But I thought it might help you to recognize your power.”     [Conclusion:]   So what did you think of that?   I’m actually a bit surprised at how this story came out, it could be a children’s book… don’t you think? Which is very interesting to me, because the real life Lynelle, who is one of our newest Patrons, is actually a children’s book author herself. She wrote A Zoo Just for You, which is a really fun book with two of my favorite things: animals and rhyming! I’ll link to that book in the shownotes so you can check it out. But it’s only as I was writing the conclusion to this episode that I realized I must have been channeling Lynelle somehow as I wrote this.   Because I’ve never once set out to write specifically for children, in fact this story was supposed to end very differently. The idea came to me at a more cynical time in my life. At the time I was a newer vegan, maybe a year or two from when I stopped eating dairy and eggs. I was still hurting a lot from the truths I’d discovered, and more specifically, from the reactions I’d gotten from some family and friends about my decision.   You see, from my perspective I was making a decision that came from a place of love. I was absolutely sure I was doing the biggest thing a single human being in an animal-product heavy culture could do to vote with my wallet. I guess… I thought, that people would, at the very least, respect my decision, at the best, maybe I’d inspire them to make more loving decisions themselves. But I was oh-so-wrong about that.   Instead I got tons of resistance, I got lots of cruel jokes, walls went up, and the sensitive introvert in me cowered away from people who were determined to stay trapped in their comfortable bubble of social programming. Don’t get me wrong, there were some who asked thoughtful questions, some who listened to the stories I told as I burst into tears. And though many people accept my decision as a part of who I am, it’s a rare gem that’s willing to go so far as to make changes in their own lives.   More than once over the past few years I’ve had to ignore the voice in my head that wants to lock myself away in my own comfort zone, ditch all my lifelong omnivore friends, and move to Woodstock to find a tribe of vegan hipsters that will take me in. But I know that change is hard. I know that seeds planted sometimes take a long time to grow. So I have to keep planting seeds where they can grow, and the most fertile soil is in people who don’t know yet the power they have to change the world. Not just for animals, but for the environment and for their very own health.   But anyway… that was a very long tangent to say that I felt like a vegan victim for a long time. I felt like making a decision guided by love had somehow caused people to fear, hate, and feel threatened by me. And so the ladybug was originally going to die in the end. In a shocking twist the gardener was supposed to show up, see the cucumbers in her garden all chewed up, follow the trail of destruction to the green beetle, and crunch it into oblivion for being a “pest.”   I know that ending came from a metaphorical sense of self-loathing. I know that by killing off the herbivorous beetle I would’ve been trying to express how I felt the world received my own intentions to live a more peaceful existence.   But since then, I’ve had a lot of spiritual growth in my life. I’ve learned more about how the Universe works. I’ve realized that anybody who hurts me is coming from a place of hurt themselves. And so I’ve tried my best to step out of my comfort zone. Instead of quietly hiding my veganism I decided to do something scary. I decided to teach people about vegan choices and the reality of what animal agriculture is doing to harm animals and our rapidly dying planet. I did that by becoming a tour guide at Catskill Animal Sanctuary last year, where I got to hang out with some of the 300 plus lucky cows, pigs, chickens, goats, sheep and horses who live there (among many other animals) and introduce them and their stories to visitors, and if you’re into podcasts you should check out theirs. Kathy Stevens, the founder and host of All Beings Considered, is an amazing storyteller. I’ll link to my favorite episode about a sheep named Rambo in the shownotes. It’s the most inspiring story about a real life animal I’ve ever heard.   Anyway, that brings me to another shoutout, because Ana Kuprava, who our butterfly character was named after, is one of my fellow tour guides at the sanctuary, a new vegan friend, and she’s also become a supporter of the show on Patreon. I never had any intention of doing anything other than naming my characters after our new Patrons… but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that memories of lessons learned at Catskill Animal Santuary weren’t running through my head as wrote this story. Especially as I decided that the murderous ending I had in mind didn’t serve the story at all as well as it could.   So thank you to both of you, not only for supporting Art Ink on Patreon, but also for inspiring me to make this a better story than it would have been without you!   And thank you, my friends, for listening! That’s all for this show, but we’ll be back with a new artist and a new adventure in just a couple of weeks… so stay tuned… but until then, remember that you can be whatever you want to be… the best version of you is already inside of you, you only need to find the courage to be it.  

Dave is one of the few artists out there who has helped me to realize that I’m not alone in more than one way. I’m not the only one who has a passion for multiple forms of creative expression. I’m not the only one who struggles through this curvy path of choosing to live the most creative life possible. I’m not the only one making it all up as I go along, taking the risks and rewards one day at a time. I used to be really afraid of change… who am I kidding, it still terrifies the fuck out of me… but…     [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink13 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Dave Conrey Title of Art: Infinite Possibility Artist’s Website: daveconrey.com Instagram: @daveconrey Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs   Email Bek at bekah@rebekahnemethy.com for any feedback   GET ALL OF MY ART FOR $1 RIGHT NOW ON PATREON! For real, but it’s only open to the 1st 100 people who sign up, so do it now, before it’s too late.     Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Hello my friends, welcome back to one of my favorite places to be, digging into the creative zone that is this podcast. Back when I was in high school I always thought I’d be a writer, it was the thing that all of my teachers, family, and even many of my friends, expected me to be. I wrote a little bit of fiction back then, but at this point, I’m sure I’ve written more fiction for Art Ink than I did throughout all of high school and college.   I have to admit that these most recent experiences are so much more satisfying than any fiction writing I did back then. Maybe it was because that back then I still believed in the need to have gatekeepers validate my work, and possibly it was also the fact that I wasn’t equipped with the knowledge I have now about how to push through the excuses many of us make about why we don’t create the work we feel compelled to do, but I also know that reading the words aloud does something to manifest these stories in way that just feels more complete. Which is really interesting because a few years ago speaking into a microphone seemed scarier than skydiving without a parachute… and now… now it might be the thing that most motivates me to write; so I can make the words come alive.   This is one of the stranger stories I’ve written, and I think that’s why I love it so much. It has many layers to it, and I’ll discuss some of that at the end of this episode, but first, I’m sure you’re dying to know whose artwork is gracing the cover of today’s show.   Dave Conrey is a well-rounded artist I’ve been following for many years. He’s also a designer, a writer, a fellow podcaster, and an advocate for artists. Before I even had the vagina to call myself an artist he was one of the voices in my head, I binged on all of his podcast episodes, read all of his books, and I soaked it all up like a parched, shrunken sponge.   Dave is one of the few artists out there who has helped me to realize that I’m not alone in more than one way. I’m not the only one who has a passion for multiple forms of creative expression. I’m not the only one who struggles through this curvy path of choosing to live the most creative life possible. I’m not the only one making it all up as I go along, taking the risks and rewards one day at a time.   I used to be really afraid of change… who am I kidding, it still terrifies the fuck out of me… but it also leads to some of the most fun and fulfilling moments of my life. Things that, many times, are totally unexpected and couldn’t have happened any other way.   I’ve watched Dave’s evolution with awe. Back when I first started listening to him, he wasn’t making any visual art at all, at least not publicly. I mean, he was creating plenty of content, which is still art in my book, but I’m talking about watching Dave’s Instagram erupt with design and mixed media art. His work is edgy and avant garde. I’m totally not an art critic and, in all honesty, I’m not sure I used that term right… it actually sounds a bit pretentious… and whatever the opposite of pretentious is… that is what Dave’s art is to me. It’s messy, but in the most visually appealing way possible. It’s a bit grungy. I love it!   So let’s get into the beautiful mess that is the piece of art that prompted today’s story… shall we?     [Art Description:]   There’s so much to this mixed media piece that I have to stress that you take a look at it yourself whenever you can. If you can’t see the cover art in your podcast app then check the episode description for the link.   One of my favorite things about abstract art is how perspective can change so much about what it becomes to each individual viewer. What I see may not be what you see. That’s also a disclaimer.   In the middle of this painting is a deep sapphire blue wave, at the very center the blue is more muted, and this is where the stacked words “INFINITE POSSIBILITY” stem from, stretching across the right center of the piece. Below the words the blue deepens and blends into a couple of thick black strokes, with thin streaks of yellow, that swoop down and to the left. Slashing across the top of the blue black wave an orange streak underlines part of the word, “POSSIBILITY,” and curves sharply down to the right corner. Bits of black peek through the orange, it’s almost like a creature of some sort is hiding behind it, gripping it with a single monstrous hand. A pink and black animal of some sort, a made up one for sure, because I can’t name it, rides atop the orange stroke beneath “BILITY.”   So heading clockwise, from the bottom right corner, we’re back in those black strokes that led down from the blue center and then end in two circularly stroked patches of pink. The top-most pink paint looks like half of a record, brush streaks thin the paint in the center of the stroke revealing the blue and black beneath. To the bottom left of the pink half record is a larger pink section shaped like a squished half moon, and inside that squat moon is a black silhouette, it could be the reflection of a surfer or maybe a dancer.   Still heading around the clock, skipping over a large unpainted area of white at 7 o’clock, we land on the bottom of a backwards C of orange paint that stretches from 8 o’clock to 9. Jagged, blocky veins of black paint cover much of the orange and lead both down to the pink and back up to a bold red spray-painted circle dripping blood like a bullet wound. A fine mist of red speckles the pale blue and pink below the red wound and also spots the orange C and the white space running down the left side of the art.   At 9 o’clock, just to the left of the red, orange, and black is another jagged black line, thicker than the veiny lines below, that leads up and curves to 11 o’clock where it ends at an angry looking black eye. Orange fills the space beneath half of this eye, and to the left a thick downward stroke of orange fills the top corner.   Remember we’ve been circling around this deep blue center area, and so at 12 o’clock, just above where the sapphire blue comes to a point and to the right of the eye, yellow and green paint fill a space that, along with the eye, looks like a short, pointy elephant trunk that stretches diagonally across the page. The forehead area of the elephant’s face is muted blue and white at the top center.   Following the same slightly diagonally line created in yellow and green, 3 squares of pink are situated from forehead to center trunk. A thick pink stroke lies parallel along the rest of the trunk downward to the word “INFINITE.” Black lines edge some of the pink squares and are scribbled through the thicker stroke. To the right of the pink paint, more black lines, strokes, and dots lead down to the words. They remind me of dominos.   Dave’s message to the artist is worth quoting. Along with his Instagram post of Infinite Possibility he wrote: “If you knew you could not fail, what would you go after? What dream would you chase down? At the crossroads of purpose and passion exists infinite possibility. Now, in order to realize that infinite possibility, you have to drive your ass down to the corner of hard work and due diligence.”   I couldn’t agree more with Dave’s words. Well most of it… I don’t really think it’s supposed to be hard… we just believe it’s supposed to be, so it is.   I do however believe in Infinite Possibility, and along with those words and some of visuals my perspective pulled from Dave’s creation, another story was born. I call this one, All the Other 9/11s…   [Story:]   September 11th, 2001 – 12:02 pm   Dakota: I woke up late, feeling strangely heavy. Now there’s… this… fascinating presence inside of me. Clear words that aren’t mine; memories, too, vivid ones. I’m just going to let it all out, before it goes away. I don’t have much time.   In all 123,321 universions I’ve experienced, this is the first time I’ve felt the urge to write it all down—well, write as much of it as I can, anyway, in the mere 24 hours I have before I’ll leave this body and drop into another one.   No, this is not like the exorcist or the body snatchers, I’m not some kind of demon or alien possessing Dakota’s body. I am still Dakota, hence the sudden urge to write, but I am also a different entity entirely. A wandering soul, you might call me. And, today, Dakota has access to all of my memories, and I have access to hers. You could see it as a sort of partnership. I can’t force Dakota to do anything against her will, and honestly, most vessels I drop into don’t even recognize me as more than an odd feeling… which is another reason we are furiously writing this down. I’m thrilled that she can sense me so clearly and honored that she’s so interested in my life and will do my best to answer her questions.   Dakota: Who are you? Do you have a name?   Hmmm no… I don’t often get the chance to communicate with my vessels, so I guess I’ve never had a need for a name. I take on the name of the vessel I’m traveling in. Today, I am Dakota.   Dakota: Why are you here? What’s your mission… ok this is weird because we’re in one mind, so I get it, but I’m having a hard time putting your experience into words.   My mission is the same as the human mission, except it is much easier for me, and that is simply… to be.   To use a popular movie in this universion to simplify my existence, my life is like Groundhog Day, except I’m in a different body and a new universion every 24 hours. So, as of today, I’ve experienced 123,321 completely unique versions of September 11th, 2001 here on Earth. Infinity is hard for most of us to fathom, but even this many days, which amounts to over 300 years of your linear time, is so much more miniscule than our human mind can perceive. I wish I could share the experience of every day with you, but I don’t have the time to even think it all, and no reader would have the time to read it, so I’ll give you the highlight reel.   Dakota: What’s the most memorable universion you can share?   Universion 626, for sure.   The most beautiful moment I’ve ever experienced was on Miami beach, just after sunset. The waves lapped up onto the beach and sparkled pink as it hit the sand. As we walked along the saturated shoreline, the sand beneath our feet illuminated with every step we took, the neon pink glow spreading over our feet and up our ankles if the water had washed over them recently enough.   We’d swum out into the ocean after dark. Drawing messages to each other underwater, the plankton making it look like our fingers were magic wands.   After she’d drawn me a heart I grabbed her hand and pulled her to me. In many universions there is a lot of symbolism surrounding the way sparks and fireworks and light, in general, fly when you experience love… but this was the first universion where this manifested literally. Our kiss felt electric, and even with our eyes closed, the pink sparks shone through.   We were married for 11 years, but she told me just before I left, that she thought it was the best date we’d ever had.   Dakota: Wow, that’s so beautiful. The bioluminescent plankton here are bluish. Are there many variations like that in these alternate realities? The same but off just a bit in color or… anything else?   Oh yes, colors can vary greatly… sometimes they don’t exist at all.   Dakota: What do you mean? Were you inside of a blind person? That’s what it seems like… what is that? How can we explain that?   The memory you’re experiencing is of a universion where humans didn’t see with their eyes but with a sort of extra sensory perception. We are all made of light, Dakota, and the way we perceive of that light here is through color, but it’s possible to experience light in all sorts of ways.   Dakota: It’s like you’re… feeling… colors? That’s so weird, I-I can’t explain what you’re showing me.   Humans here aren’t built to perceive in this way, writing about it would most likely just confuse your readers.   Dakota: Yeah, you’re right. Have you ever told anyone else about your travels? Am I the only one?   Only once, in Universion 9,382. I was an 11-year-old girl named Sarah, camping out with my best friend Penny in her backyard.   “Aliens or ghosts?” Penny asked, holding up two books. The flashlight she held between her knees pointed straight up, making her look ghoulish: sunken, shadowed eye sockets and glowing red nostrils. The books were nothing but two rectangular silhouettes, but we’d read them enough that I knew their covers by heart. Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, with the creepy, drippy black artwork, and Alien Abductions with the typical grey alien with big, black pupilless eyes and a lightbulb-shaped head.   “Actually, I have a new story.” I said.   “You do?” Penny leaned forward, dropping her hands and placing the books on the tent floor. Only the skin beneath her chin was illuminated and a few statically charged wisps of highlighted hair, as her face plunged into darkness.   “Can you keep a secret?” I asked, and the oval shadow of her face bobbed up and down.   Dakota: Penny asked me… uh, I mean you if you ever wished you could stay?   Yes. I’d asked myself that same question countless times, but I stumbled with the sudden pressure to provide an honest answer. Maybe a few times I’d wanted to have more time, but the truth was that I get to live more presently than my vessels do; most of the people I drop in on have a plethora of problems and worries. Usually they are so wrapped up in their everyday patterns that they rarely notice the unique beauty of each new day, but I can’t avoid the… nowness of it all. I still feel their pain, but because it’s all new to me, I experience it differently. I’d hate to let life become so dull and my body so numb, which I suspect is what would happen if I spent too many days in any one body.   But what I finally said to Penny was, “No,” simply because she was still very much present, as most children are in her universion, and she wouldn’t have understood the adult human condition until she experienced it herself.   Though, in other 9/11s, there were several universions that appealed to me.   Dakota: Any particular one come to mind?   Yes. Universion 111,111. It was not that the memory of that September 11th was exciting or anything, it was actually quite a mundane day; a typical Saturday with my father in Central Park playing dominos.   It was the society that had developed within this universion that was so much better than most.   Can you imagine a unified Earth, Dakota? An entire planet without borders? Without a need for property or money? A place where unconditional love prevails and everything is shared? Without war? Without slavery?   Dakota: There’s no slavery in the US anymore.   Not of the human variety, well not legally. But billions of animals are enslaved, are they not?...   Can you imagine a planet of humans who love and share and support each other? Who live with the Earth rather than off of it. This was one universion I’d like to have stayed in.   Dakota: Can you change things? I mean, by communicating with me, by helping me write all this down… we’re changing things here already aren’t we?   Do you feel that I am forcing you write this down?   Dakota: No, but I feel an urge that couldn’t exist without your being here, without your inspirational knowledge. Are there more of you?   Yes and no. That’s a hard question to answer. I’ve never met anyone else like me, but since I travel alone, I wouldn’t know if I had met another observer. And that is the key phrase here. I observe. My vessels have complete free will. I cannot impose my desires on anyone I visit. And only those rare people like you, who are open to communication, ever know I’ve dropped in at all.   Dakota: Isn’t it scary not having any control? Has there ever been a universion you wished you could leave immediately?   There have been a few. Joining a vessel who is either experiencing or inflicting pain is not pleasant. But even the darkest days have had their slices of beauty.   Dakota: The silence is so peaceful, the space in between the drip, drip, drip. I look up from the pool of rippling red, where another drop of red is swelling at the tip of a transparently gray toe.   Drip.   Silence.   Drip.   Silence.   I follow the thin red line upwards. As my gaze moves up the pale leg, my eyes move faster, trying to take in the whole scene so as not to stare too long at any one gruesome detail.   A white hospital-gown-looking garment stained dark red at the center, splattering outwards, the speckles growing finer the further they reach.   Though her face is concealed by her drooping head, I know what it looks like.   Flashback: Blue, darting, terrified eyes.   Flashback: Red, full quivering lips. They contract into a chapped, wrinkled O. “No, no, no, no,” they plead.   Flashback: A hand… my hand? No, but it’s coming from my body, holds the girl’s head up by a fistful of her blonde hair, the other pushes a pistol to her gut.   Dakota: You killed her!   Yes.   Dakota: Wasn’t there any way you could stop it?   No.   Dakota: Do you choose the people you drop in on? Why would you want to feel what it’s like to-to murder someone?   Because it’s part of the human experience.   Dakota: Well it wasn’t part of my human experience… until you came along. I don’t know if I can handle any more memories like that.   Well it’s nearly time for me to move on anyway. Do you have any other questions?   Dakota: Yeah, what’s with the numbers I keep seeing? All those 1s…   I dropped in on a mathematician once. They were such a nerd for numbers. One of their favorite equations was 111 x 1,111 = 123,321, which, as I told you when I first arrived, is the number of days I’ve experienced here on Earth. 1… 2… 3… 3… 2… 1.   Dakota (September 12th, 2001):   I fell asleep quite suddenly… I don’t even remember going to bed. This all seems so much like a dream. But unless I was sleep writing yesterday, it wasn’t.   I slept all morning, and though I have a deadline for a book that’s due later this week, I just have to get this out while it’s fresh.   The nameless entity that weighed me down is now gone. I feel empty. It wasn’t the kind of weight that stress or grief dumps on you, though, it was an inspiring kind of weight. The weight of hundreds of years of memories in places that seem… simultaneously right next door and light years and light years away.   And if I didn’t have the pages from yesterday, I’d think it was all a dream. It still sort of feels like it may have been.   Their memories were so vivid to me… the way I wrote it for you is to simplify it… to make it understandable to you. But we weren’t having a conversation that was all in my head… it was all instant: fully formed sentences, stories, flashes of memories that I had to decipher.   Ugh, hold on, the phone’s ringing… it’s my editor, I have to take it. Hi Don, yeah, I’m working on it. New York?… what today? No, I still have too much to do… yeah I know it would be a great, opp-… ok, fine… when do I have to be there?   Sorry, I’ll have to cut this short… I have a last minute interview in the city today at CNN, apparently it’s a slow news day and I may not get another shot at this. Obviously my experience yesterday has me thinking irrationally if Don’s perception of reality is accurate… though I’m not sure if anyone’s perception of reality is accurate anymore.]   Oh my god… I thought I remembered everything. I thought—I thought I wrote every word consciously… but I just reread the entire text and at the end, I—I don’t remember writing this last sentence:   “They are all you.”     [Conclusion:]   Dave Conrey, thank you for sharing your work with us today. I loved exploring this piece and I hope that all of you listening enjoyed the adventure it took me on too. If you want to find out more about Dave you can follow him on Instagram @daveconrey. There are links in the shownotes to that, Dave’s website, which is simply daveconrey.com, and a link to check out the cover art that sparked today’s story if you still haven’t download Podcast Addict, which is the best podcasting app out there to get the full experience of Art Ink.   So usually this is where I say goodbye to you, but I’m curious… what did you think of that? What if this was the way reality actually worked? Feel free to email me any thoughts.   You remember how I told you there were more layers to this story… well there is actually a lot of personal symbolism woven in there, but the biggest thing for me was that this entire story took place on 9/11.   Like anyone residing inside the US, and I’m sure many of you in other countries too, I remember exactly where I was when the horrible news started to spread. I was about an hour north of NYC. It was my junior year in a brand new high school, I knew nobody around me, I didn’t have a cell phone, I worried that my Dad, who was a travelling repairman, might be in the city, but I had no way of knowing. Several of the kids in my English class were hysterically crying. Nobody was working. There was talk of sending us all home, but that didn’t happen and it made me more mad, more afraid. I’ve never really trusted public authorities to take care of me… I wanted out. But I sat there in silence and terror until I could go home and discover that my Dad was safe.   I remember the days, weeks, and months after that day as a blur of American flags, bumper stickers, and window decals. Giant flags flapping over the entire length of pickup truck beds. The ubiquitous rear window flags that appeared on at least half of all the cars I saw on the road. Then the words I saw over and over and over again on my commutes: Never Forget 9/11.   I almost titled this story “Forgetting 9/11,” but I figured that without a proper explanation that’d probably turn a lot of people off. But it was very intentional that I refrained from writing about 9/11 as we know it. Why?   Well, I didn’t mention this back before I left for my Creative Sandbox Retreat, but I almost didn’t go because the day I had to fly from NYC to San Jose happened to fall on 9/11. It gave me mild anxiety all year long. But I told myself I was being ridiculous. The day I flew out I tried to see the bright side… I was through security in under 5 minutes. No one was in line in front of me; apparently I wasn’t the only one who was afraid of flying on the infamous day.   When I made it to the retreat center unscathed and I told Melissa that I almost decided not to come because of my silly superstition, she totally understood. But later, during our opening circle Melissa said something that turned this whole thing around for me. And unfortunately I can’t even say I’m paraphrasing because although I can remember her words bringing tears to my eyes, I can’t remember what she said; well that’s proof that that expression is true: people won’t always remember what you say or do, but they will always remember how you make them feel.   I know that she repeated my fears to the group and then she said that she was glad that I decided to come anyway. Basically, Melissa pointed out to me that I was reshaping 9/11, that I was no longer living in its shadow, that I was turning it into something good, instead.   For many months now I’ve been seeing repetitive 1s, I always happen to look at the clock at 11:11 and 1:11, but after I started drafting the idea for this story and I decided to set the story on 9/11, I started seeing 9:11 on clocks almost daily, too. I took that as a personal sign to keep on writing this story.   So I mean no disrespect when I say that I want to forget 9/11. I don’t mean that we should forget the loved ones who were lost. But I do mean that we shouldn’t let the shadow of that one day darken all of the 9/11s that are to come.   And that goes for any personal shadows you might have that you’re holding onto. There is one person in my family who grieves the loss of someone who’s been dead for nearly 50 years. Every year when the calendar page turns to reveal their loved one’s death date, they mourn like the person died yesterday. They plan to have a horrible day and they do.   I dunno, maybe I’m selfish, but I’d rather celebrate that I’m still lucky enough to be alive than ruin another precious day I have on Earth. I mean, I’m not always a fucking ray of sunshine, don’t get me wrong, I feel painful things, I still need to purge my anger and sadness and fear with a good cry every once in awhile. But then I do my very best to let it go. It takes practice and I’m not perfect at it. But I think, for me, it’s time to let 9/11 go.   Your potential is limitless, not just as an artist, but as a human being. Once you realize that the possibilities really are infinite, then you have the power to choose which possibility you want to live. Own it my friend. Own it.   PS – There’s a crazy special offer going on on Patreon right now. If you support me for just $1 per month you’ll get access to my Patron-only Art Library (high res downloads of all the fine art I’ve created over the past decade 300+ images!!!). You’ll also have a character in an upcoming episode of Art Ink named after you!   All Patrons also get access to any content I put out 2 days before anyone else as well as a copy of my exclusive audiobook (which is pretty much Art Ink before it was Art Ink, so it’s like getting 100 mini bonus episodes!).   Offer ends 12/21/19 or after the 1st 100 people sign up. Become a Patron on Patreon here to get instant access to all of these goodies.    

I’m thrilled today to introduce you to writer, director, and producer Nathan Ives whose latest film, “Somewhere in the Middle,” just released a few days ago. He was gracious enough to give us an insider’s look at how the film came to be, but before we dive into his story...     [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink# to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Nathan Ives Title of Documentary: Somewhere in the Middle - Watch Somewhere in the Middle on Amazon Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MuleFilms/     Also mentioned in this episode:   Griffin House’s song: City River Lights   Movie: A Christmas in New York   Movie: The Basement   Singer-songwriter: Griffin House   Actor: Jasika Nicole   Guitar Player: Aaron Tap   Paper Sculptor: Jeff Nishinaka   Painter: Dan McCaw   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs       Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Hello my friends, thank you for tuning into another episode of Art Ink. When I was still in the imagination phase of creating this podcast I had daydreams of featuring not just visual art, but also music and dance, knitting and embroidery, movies and books. I’ve been hustling so much to get each episode out on time it’s left me featuring artwork that’s limited to my small perspective. That’s not to say I don’t absolutely love the art and the artists I’ve selected so far, but what I am saying is that I’m just 1 person in a universe of what sometimes feels like infinite artists, and sometimes the only way for me to open up to a new creation is for YOU to reach out to me.   That’s why I’m thrilled today to introduce you to writer, director, and producer Nathan Ives whose latest film, “Somewhere in the Middle,” just released a few days ago. He was gracious enough to give us an insider’s look at how the film came to be, but before we dive into his story, let me give you a little taste of what it’s all about.     [Art Description:]     “Somewhere in the Middle,” is a documentary that digs into the lives of 5 artists who you’ve probably never heard of, but have all made a legitimate career from their creative work. Two musicians, an actor, a painter, and a paper sculptor all share stories that illuminate what it’s really like to have a career in the arts. In a culture that sees artists as either superstars or starving, I found this to be a refreshing look at the reality of being a full-time artist.   With that, I’m going to narrate the story that Nathan sent in about what sparked his idea to create this film and a bit about the struggles he overcame to complete it.   [Story:]   ‘River City Lights’ blew me away. The song is simple, beautiful, heart wrenching, and, to me, a perfect song. To this day I’m mesmerized when I listen to it or hear Griffin House play it live. For a few minutes I escape the craziness and drift into a melancholy oasis. There are a handful of songs in my life that have this effect on me, most I discovered in my teens, a few precious ones, more recently.   In 2016 I was directing ‘A Christmas In New York,’ and needed a song for the closing credits. I reached out to Griffin, having met him at a few of his shows, and he was gracious enough to write one for the film.   We developed what I would call a professional friendship. We’re not on one another’s Holiday card list, but when he’s in town, we’ll chat before or after his show about music, films, and getting by as an artist.   On one such occasion I made a comment about how impressed I was that he’d found a balance between staying true to his art and making a legitimate living. Griffin replied with one of his humble, sheepish grins, and a ‘thanks, man.’   Then he continued and said, ‘but you know, I was playing at The New York City Winery a few weeks ago, it was a sold out, like three hundred people or something. Really fun show. Afterwards this couple comes up to me, and this happens all the time, they said ‘we really love your music and we just know you’re going to make it someday!’   Griffin owns a house in Nashville and his music is the primary source of income for his family. He spends a couple of weeks on the road playing shows followed by a couple of weeks at home spending time with his family and working on new material. Sounds like a miserable life that no one would want to live… or, wait, does it sound like a life many people would dream of living?   Our conversation got me thinking about what it means to be a ‘successful’ artist. Over the next couple of months the question kept drifting into my psyche at traffic lights, in the shower, and other random places. Eventually it occurred to me that it was something I wanted to explore further.   Around that time, I had just completed a horror film, ‘The Basement,’ and my wife and I had our second child. I needed a project smaller in scope than a full feature film, that I could do in my free time, in and around changing diapers. At which point the seed of the idea for ‘Somewhere In The Middle’ was born.   I reached out to Griffin first, since the idea originated with him, and he agreed to be interviewed. One of my favorite people on this big planet was next, the actor, Jasika Nicole, who I had worked with previously on a film. My friend Paul is Matt Nathanson’s tour manager and recommended I interview Aaron Tap, Matt’s longtime guitar player. I was introduced to paper sculptor Jeff Nishinaka through the cinematographer I’ve worked with through the years, Ken Stipe, and Jeff, in turn, introduced me to the painter, Dan McCaw.   All five met my criteria of not being household names, but who made a legitimate living solely through their art.   There, I had my subjects. All that was left to do was to interview them all, write all of the moments and ideas I loved on index cards, lay the index cards on our dining room table, and stand over them, sipping a cup of Earl Gray tea, nibbling on cookies, until I figured out exactly what this film would be.   Once I had a general structure, it was off to sit for many hours in a dark room with the editor, Brady, and cut the pieces together. Once that was done and we had a rough cut of the film, I decided, without question, it was the worst thing, perhaps, that I had ever seen.   I then went home to my wife, talked about what a failure I was, and moped around the house like Eeyore for a few days. At first, she was sympathetic and did her best to console me, but given that she’d just given birth to a ten pound child, understandably, it didn’t last long.   A few days and ideas later, I went back in with Brady and we re-cut the film. It was much better, it suddenly felt again like a project that just might be worth finishing. As we began laying in the score from Pat O’Brien, it really started to come to life and I was beginning to think that this might actually be a film I’d be proud of.   From there, it was off to The Garrison, both my producing partner on the project and the post production facility. There we did the sound, color, and animated the titles. To be clear that’s the equivalent of saying, we just painted the house, put on the roof, and did the landscaping. It’s a lot of work and took about six weeks.   In the end, Somewhere In The Middle is a film I’m very proud of. What strikes me most about it is the honesty and vulnerability of the subjects. They really pull no punches and give us a window into their lives, the good, the bad, and the ugly. They are hard working, flawed, kind, extraordinarily talented human beings who, even though they may not be among the fortunate few who make it to superstar status, are redefining what it means to be a successful artist.   I hope the film will serve as an inspiration and education for those considering a career in the arts. For parents of a child considering such a path, I hope it offers a different perspective. For those who are working artists, I hope it offers that ‘thank God I’m not alone’ feeling.   There are moments in the film that will resonate with anyone in the arts, but many of those moments are as much about life as they are about art. I’ll leave you with the one from the seventy six year old painter, Dan McCaw, who said ‘In the end, we’re only what we’ve allowed ourselves to be.’     [Conclusion:]   So, another reason I found “Somewhere in the Middle,” such a refreshing film is that, until now, podcasts were my only source of insight into the world of full-time artists. The mass media rarely cover anyone who isn’t already a household name, and I don’t think there’s a movie out there that doesn’t regurgitate either the rags to riches cliché and/or the starving artist stereotype. A new story is long overdue, and I’m so glad that Nathan is helping to tell it.   Despite how much I learned from these career creatives, I actually resonate with Nathan’s story, the part that I had to dig a little deeper to pull out of him, after he submitted his story. And because I think many of you will resonate with this too, I’m going to share.   As I let you know in the last episode I’m back to temporarily working a day job to pay off some of the debt I racked up in my yearlong journey of jumping into voiceover and to fund a new soundproof booth so I don’t have the urge murder my neighbors when they want to mow their lawns. Am I a failure because I decided to make some regular income from a job that’s not quite as satisfying… sometimes I think so, honestly, but I know that’s a culturally programmed mindset. And despite my intention to turn off the audiobook and voice over work since June, the jobs haven’t stopped coming, so for creating a mindset of success for myself, that’s been really validating. So really success is so very personal. Some artists want the paparazzi, to me that would be an absolute nightmare, I just want to be able to control my own schedule and work in yoga pants.   This is Nathan’s 4th film according to IMDB, his 5th if you count another movie I came across, that, for some reason, is not linked up there. Maybe there are even more I don’t know about. But the point is he worked with Vivica A. Fox on his very first movie, and he worked for 3 years completely off of his creative work. When I asked him about the experience of his own career via email Nathan wrote:   “Currently, my wife and I own a boat salvage yard that I manage and she has a good job in healthcare. Luckily, we have very good employees and the boat business only takes a few hours a day of my time. The rest I can focus on film work.    The best things about my time as an independent artist were the flexibility and working on the creative elements full time. When I wasn't shooting, I was down at my favorite coffee shop writing or prepping for upcoming projects - that was fun. The worst things, by far, were the inconsistency of work (and pay) and taking a lot of jobs I really didn't want to do, just for the money. I'm much happier now, balancing my time between a business that I also love (boats), that is much more consistent, and film. These days, the film work I do, goes towards the kid's college funds or a remodel on the house.”   I’m so happy he shared that with me, because it just goes to show you that an artist’s idea of what success is, is as nuanced as the people behind the art.   I know that many of you listening today are artists, and if you resonate with the idea of helping to shatter the starving artist paradigm there’s something you can do to help:   Please watch “Somewhere in the Middle” on Amazon and leave an honest review. Your reviews will go a long way in making sure this movie will be seen by as many people as possible. I’ll have a link in the shownotes that’ll take you right there.   Thanks in advance for your support! Ok, my friends, that’s all you’re going to hear from me today, but before I go, I wanted to let you know to stick around for just another minute if you want to hear a little teaser from the movie. Ok, I’m signing off, but as usual, I’ll be back with more in a couple of weeks.

I met Dorothy Siemens several years ago in an online art marketing course, and I’ve been hooked on her work ever since! The way her art is filled with layer upon layer of color and texture makes me swoon so much so that, many times, I’ve been shocked to discover that I’m looking at the progress photo of a half done, or even just begun, painting…       [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink11 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Dorothy Siemens Title of Art: Wonder-Rapture Artist’s Website: https://dorothysiemens.com/ Instagram: @dorothy.siemens   Dorothy’s Lyrical Language series   Support Rebekah on Patreon if you want more episodes! https://www.patreon.com/rebekahnemethy     Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs       Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Hello my friends! Thank you for tuning in to a new episode of Art Ink!   I’m late with this episode, and I’m consciously preventing myself from pulling out the S-word. But I feel I owe you an explanation, nevertheless. I do this weird thing I’ve noticed that’s kind of a pattern for me: I seem to procrastinate on the things I want to do most, by unintentionally overcommitting myself. I also do this other thing that I’m afraid many of us in capitalistic societies do, and that is I makes choices based on money. It pains me to admit that, because I’ve spend a lot of time promising myself I will let my heart weigh in more heavily than my mind over the past few years, but unfortunately my head and my wallet still has an equal vote in my decisions.   At the end of a long texting vent with my BFF last week I apologized for complaining to her typing, I hope you’re not rolling your eyes at me, you’re probably even busier than that (she has two kids on totally different schedules, a job, and is going to school full time too), and I know I do this to myself. She replied, I’m not rolling my eyes, it’s like you have four jobs!   Even though I was aware that I have far too much to juggle right now, it hadn’t quite struck me until she did the math for me. Oh my god, I thought, I do have four jobs. And in order to prioritize this podcast, I just recently had to resign from some volunteer work I’ve been doing over the past 6 months. Yikes… so I actually had five jobs?   I didn’t wake up one day and say I’m going to use up every spare second of time I have every week… but back in March, when I had only 1 job I did reach out to a couple of animal organizations that I love. One of them was looking for volunteers and the other was looking for part-time seasonal help. And I ended up getting involved with both of them. So that was my new commitment for Saturday and Sunday.   Then, in June, a friend from my former photography job offered me a contract my logical side couldn’t resist, good money for working only 3 days per week for the next 6 months. After a happy but stressful year of totally freelancing doing audiobooks and voiceover, I thought it’d be nice to have a bit of consistent work so that I could focus on, guess what?, this podcast in my free time (which, at this point, was the remaining 2 days per week).   So I stopped auditioning for audiobooks and I went out of office on my Fiverr account… but the thing is, the audiobooks didn’t stop coming. Authors I didn’t even know were finding my samples on Audible, other clients I’d done a couple of jobs for were consistently sending me more work, and the stash of stories I had queued up for Art Ink rapidly started to dwindle as I hustled more and more.   Luckily, I only have 2 more months left on my contract at the photography job, and the busy season at the animal sanctuary will also be wrapping up around the same time, so that should free up some time.   I have soooo many great ideas for the future of this show. Not just story ideas, and lists and lists of artists that I want to feature, but also lists of ideas about teaching storytelling to creatives of all kinds, and reaching out to authors and writers willing to help create more content, AND ideas for special episodes. But, this all takes time. Time, time, time. Despite my inability to do simple math to count how many jobs I’ve signed up for, I’m kind of a nerd when it comes to project tracking. I track the time spent on all of my audiobook projects and, although I’ve been a bit lax about tracking every little bit of my time spent on Art Ink, I can tell you that the time I have tracked clocks in at 144 hours… so that’s about 10 hours per episode. And, like I said, there have been some days when I didn’t track my time. Like the entire 5 days I spent at my recent creativity retreat. I had no internet there, so I didn’t bother trying to use the web-based tool I normally use.   So why am I telling you all of this? Well, I want to let you in on a little secret, and it’s a super scary secret to share, because of this silly superstition I have that wishes revealed don’t come true. I actually have this daydream quite often… I imagine Art Ink being a daily podcast. I imagine it being the thing I work on full time. I imagine an inbox full of submissions from other artists with the story bug, and emails from listeners that say they discovered a new artist, or even more amazing, artists who say listeners found and bought their art after listening to a story here.   The truth about podcasting is that it is a labor of love. Independent podcasters podcast because they WANT to do it, not because it’s a quick and easy way to fame and fortune, which is actually a quite comical misconception among newbie podcasters. I am paying for this podcast to go out into the world, in money AND in time. I do have a few loyal Patrons whose kind donations pay for the monthly hosting fees for this podcast, but aside from that, the only payment I’m getting is the satisfaction of doing it. And, unfortunately, that does limit how much I can do when I have to decide between paying my mortgage on time or putting out my podcast on time. Ugh. I hate capitalism. #1stworldproblems right?   But if you’re enjoying this show and you want more episodes I have great news, because you can always pledge your support at patreon.com/rebekahnemethy. With your help I might be able to more easily choose my heart over my head and maybe even get these episodes out on time! And you’ll also get a bunch of bonuses that you can only find on Patreon, like getting access to the show 2 days early, a copy of my Artsy Reflections audiobook, and a blooper reel that’s guaranteed to crack you up.   Ok, with that said, let’s get ready to dig into today’s story! Today’s featured artist is one of my favorite artists, and today’s cover art is, unfortunately, not for sale because I beat you to it! Haha.   I met Dorothy Siemens several years ago in an online art marketing course, and I’ve been hooked on her work ever since! The way her art is filled with layer upon layer of color and texture makes me swoon so much so that, many times, I’ve been shocked to discover that I’m looking at the progress photo of a half done, or even just begun, painting.   Dorothy mostly works in oil and cold wax with oil sticks, but she’s not afraid to experiment and often slips in other mediums and materials. Gold leaf is a recurring element in many of her pieces, and I’ve seen her beautifully incorporate collage into her paintings as well. Flowers, birds, and plant life (both real and imagined) are recurring themes in Dorothy’s work, and she’s brilliant at painting patterns that give this viewer an instant sense of relaxation. But Dorothy can also dazzle me when she dips into the realm of the abstract.   Wonder-Rapture, the piece that sparked today’s story, is actually one of Dorothy’s more abstract paintings, so let me repaint it into your imagination until you get a chance to check it out yourself.   [Art Description:]   So, Wonder-Rapture is a diptych made up of two square panels. The panel on the left is primarily blue, and the one on the right is pink. The tops of both panels have, what looks to me, like gold clouds. On the bottom of them both are many different words blending into each other and the backgrounds in various shades of blue, pink, and gold. The most prominent word on the blue panel is “wonder,” and on the pink panel the word that stands out the most, if you haven’t already guessed, “rapture.” The element that connects the two pieces is a thick calligraphic white line that loops across the horizon along bottom third.   The truth is, when I first saw these paintings I fell in love… and I was absolutely convinced, when I recalled them later on, that the script actually said, “love.” I was wrong, though the white line seems like writing at a glance, it’s an abstract style known as “asemic writing,” which intentionally leaves the words open to interpretation or, in my case, imagination.   I call this work of fiction, Diptych in Love… enjoy.   [Story:]     Lila   She was running as fast as she could, as far as she could, but she didn’t know why she was running or who she was running from. No matter. Astrid had been 100% right thus far and so when Lila saw the words, “RUN AWAY NOW!” she didn’t hesitate.   Her burning thighs wouldn’t take her any further, though, so after a quick glance over her shoulder to reassure herself the street behind her was empty, she slowed then stopped; panted with her head between her knees.   Lila didn’t know how far she’d run, but it felt like miles. She took in her surroundings, then crept into the shadow of a large oak tree in the darkest nearby yard and squatted next to it as her breathing slowed to its regular rhythm. The moon was just a sliver in the sky, but a surprising number of houses still sent beams of yellow-orange light into the street.   A car slowly washed out the warm tinted light with large, bright white high beams.   Lila held her breath.   The white cones continued past though, and Lila sighed as the darkness enveloped her surroundings once again, seemingly darker now.   The white, bold letters flashed in her mind once again, “RUN AWAY NOW!” and Lila relived the feeling of the energy Astrid had sent along with that cryptic message. It was like an invisible oxygen-draining wave had washed over her body, amplifying the white noise in her ears and sending goosebumps rippling down her skin as it rushed past. Fear.   It was one of many messages that only she had ever been able to see. Lila’s body sagged with the thought; with the way it isolated her. Who would ever believe her if she needed to find help? What if Astrid needed help?   Lila laughed out loud before she could stop herself; threw her hand over her mouth, peered around with wide eyes that were, once again, adjusting to the dim light.   Still alone. Still safe.   The thing was, though, Astrid was a painting, well two paintings that went together. A diptych, they called it, Lila had come to find out. Laughing at herself seemed to make it ok, though, as if the laughter negated the fact that she had named a painting; negated any feelings Lila might have developed for Astrid.   She found herself reminiscing about the day she pulled back the dusty afghan to reveal the two canvases. She was rummaging through her late grandmother’s attic, moving onto another pile of long-forgotten boxes, and there they were, leaned up against the cardboard like a pair of tipped dominoes.   Lila could still remember the feeling in her stomach when she first set eyes on them. She’d gasped at the beauty, and it was as if she’d swallowed the dust swirling through the late afternoon sunbeams and they’d magically transformed into butterflies frolicking deep in her belly.   She slid the paintings apart to find that the white flowy script connected them to one another. The word love swept across the two canvases, making them one. The first square panel was blue with a gold cloud floating at the top. The second canvas was pink with a golden cloud. Both paintings had various words scribbled beneath the main lettering, various shades of blue, gold, and pink blended them in and out of the background.   Lila remembered this moment so vividly, taking in every detail of the artwork, standing there, enraptured, until the dust settled and the slivers of sun disappeared one by one. She knew what she had seen.   Yet later that night, when Lila was hanging the paintings, things had changed.   “Pretty paintings,” Naomi had said from behind her, “I never saw that at your grandma’s house.”   “Me neither, it was up in the attic,” Lila said, “I figured a little more love couldn’t hurt?”   “What do you mean?” Naomi asked.   “Ah… isn’t it pretty obvious,” Lila collected her hammer and level; was closing the box of nails.   “Well, I’m no art critic, but it looks pretty abstract to me… but if you get a love vibe from it, I’m not going to argue with you.”   Lila spun around, arms full of tools, “what is there to interpret?” she laughed. “It clearly says…” but as she looked up Lila trailed off, because the word wasn’t there anymore. “That’s strange… I could’ve sworn it said love.”   “That first loop kinda looks like an L,” Naomi said, “and I guess that could be an E at the end, but that’s as far as I can take it.”   She was right… the white script was nothing but a thick, looping line… not a word at all.   How could I have misread that? Lila thought. How could I have ‘read’ it in the first place?   “That’s ok, it’s still pretty,” Naomi said, and she pecked Lila on the cheek before she left the room.   A bit dumbfounded, Lila watched as Naomi walked away. She turned back to the painting. Stared at it. She was sure the duo had said love.   After a moment Lila shook her head silently to herself and headed to the garage to unload her tools. As she’d returned to the living room, however, she looked up at the wall and stopped short. The thick white line that stretched across the canvas now said something else: “Company’s Coming,” it read, and in the next second a knock startled Lila out of her disbelief.   “What the fuck?” she whispered to herself.   Lila cautiously peered through the peephole, and sighed out her held breath when she recognized Mrs. Jones’ smiling green eyes peering over a mountainous plate of assorted cookies. “What’s all this Mrs. Jones?” Lila said pulling the door open.   “Oh we had leftovers from my granddaughter’s bake sale, and I thought I’d share the wealth. You know my metabolism isn’t what it used to be,” she said pushing the cookies through the doorway.   “That’s so kind of you, Mrs. Jones, thank you,” Lila said, “do you want to come in for-”   “No, no dear,” she was already walking away, “I”ve already gorged myself enough for one day, gotta burn off some these calories before the sun goes down.”   “Well thanks again,” Lila said, and Mrs. Jones threw a hand over her shoulder in a half wave as she speed walked across the yard.   By the time Lila got the cookies to the coffee table, the painting had returned back to its abstractly wordless state.   The next time Astrid had morphed to message Lila it had been with a single word: “Rain.”   “Look at that!” Lila had exclaimed.   “What?!” Naomi said, startled, but when she followed Lila’s gaze to the art on the wall her expression remained unchanged.   “The painting.”   “What about it?” she looked again.   “Nothing, I thought I saw a bug.” Lila lied.   And Naomi went back to her book.   Lila had gone out shopping sometime after that. When she headed inside the sky was blue and cloudless, just as it was when she stepped back out into the sunshine an hour later, but there was steam rising from the parking lot pavement now, which was also a shade darker than it had been before.   It was summertime standard practice for Lila to leave her windows open a crack… rain was extremely rare in this part of California, especially this time of year. But she hadn’t considered the painting’s prediction; had tried to put it out of her head.   Her soggy seat didn’t let her forget it for the rest of the ride home, though.   How funny that her butt was wet now too, Lila thought, coming back to her present predicament. She clutched her knees to her chest. At least it was a warm wet spot, which was, honestly, one of the main reasons she’d been able to sit there in the dark, in a stranger’s front yard for christsakes, for so long reminiscing. But if she was completely honest, she’d also have to admit that she was too scared to go back.   At least Naomi wasn’t home… she was safe… but what about Astrid? Oh, why didn’t I think to grab my phone? Lila thought.   “Love.” It was a flash of calligraphy in Lila’s mind accompanied by that fluttery feeling she’d come to expect. It was immediately followed by a wave of shame, then a splattering of confusion.   Lila had tried to tell Naomi about Astrid’s messages, but she just didn’t see them. Though Lila had conveniently omitted the numerous times Astrid had sent her “Love.”   Lila didn’t know if she should feel grateful, or guilty, or just plain crazy. It seemed silly to admit she might be in love with a painting, but clearly Astrid loved her, otherwise why would she try to protect her? And what was she protecting her from?   Eventually she found the bravery to creep back home. She reached the edge of the property much quicker than expected… all that running had seemed to take so long. It was as if she’d watched a movie in slow motion to make it last, but once it was over only 5 minutes had passed.   It felt odd to be sneaking around her own house. She was crouching behind a bush, peeking through branches when a nearby vehicle suddenly growled to life. Headlights illuminated the street as a dark-colored van raced away from the front of her house.   Lila snuck around the perimeter, checking the darkness for intruders. Assured that she was alone, at least outside, she turned her attention to the house. There were more lights on inside than there should’ve been, so she crept around a second time peeking in the windows as she went. When she finally made her way to the front door she found it was cracked open, the wood splintered near the knob.   She pushed the door slowly… tensing as a screechy squeak tore open the silence. When Lila finally got up the nerve to step fully into the room, the fear she’d felt just before she’d fled returned full force, static erupted in her ears and pulsed louder with each thundering thud of her heart. Astrid was gone.     Naomi   “Uhhh, why is your ass all wet?” Naomi asked, grinning, “Did you have an accident?”   Lila didn’t exactly slam her keys on the countertop, but she didn’t put them down gently either. She dropped the shopping bag to the floor and spun around. “It rained,” she said, all business, “no, actually it poured.”   “I’m sorry?”   “Naomi, we live in California and it’s July.” She stared at her wife hard.   Naomi finally raised an eyebrow in response.   Lila sighed. “You know earlier, when I asked you to look at the painting?” “Yeah…”   “The painting… it-it’s been sending me messages. The white line changes into legible words sometimes, and… when it happened earlier I was trying to get you to see it,” Lila sighed again, “but it’s obvious you didn’t.” She looked at the ground.   “See what?” Naomi was suddenly in front of her, two hands gently gripping Lila’s shoulders. She moved one hand to Lila’s chin and tipped it upwards, “What didn’t I see?”   “It said, ‘rain,” Naomi, and that’s not the first time it’s predicted the future. It knew when Mrs. Jones was coming over, too.”   Naomi didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t want to be overeager with her knowledge either. The truth was Naomi had gotten some of her own messages… she hadn’t seen the one about the rain earlier, though, and that news made her wary. It made her want to keep her art criticisms to herself.   “You don’t believe me, do you?” Lila interrupted Naomi’s thoughts.   “Of course, I do.” She said, and pulled Lila in for a hug. It may have seemed like Naomi was reassuring her wife, but she was just as much trying to comfort herself.   It wasn’t just the weird premonitions though, it was the angry, vindictive vibes Naomi felt sometimes… especially when she was close to Lila, like now, she felt it now.   Naomi glanced into the living room. Her eyes darted around the room, but avoided the wall. She wanted to disprove herself. Just a quick look to see that the paintings were exactly as- but they weren’t. The once graceful flourish that linked the two squares was now drippy and jagged, “Bloody Nomi,” it said.   “What’s wrong?” Lila asked, pulling back.   Naomi must have flinched or squeezed her too hard or… something. She wasn’t sure. She tried to look anywhere but at the sinister art, but Lila had already caught her gaze and spun around to see.   Luckily, however, as Naomi had expected, they were receiving private messages. She did her best to calm her face, to act normal, to pretend literally anything else was happening.   “So… salads?” Naomi forced a smile, “Is that what we decided for tonight?” She didn’t wait for an answer, though, and began pulling vegetables out of the fridge. She rolled a barely ripe tomato into the center of a cutting board and grabbed her chef knife. On the very first slice, though, Naomi’s knife slipped across the fruit’s firm, smooth surface and slid into the meaty flesh of her thumb.   The knife was just recently sharpened, and so it took a few seconds for Naomi to register the pain, clean and quick as that slice was. Well, quick anyway, definitely not clean. Bloody was a euphemism, Naomi thought, bitterly. She managed to avoid looking at the living room wall on their way out to the car.   Six stitches later Lila and Naomi were back home, sipping on gin and tonics, and still regretting (and digesting) their vending machine dinner from hours earlier. The alcohol was making it a little easier for her to ignore the foreshadowing twins… but not for long.   “So, I’ve been doing some research,” Lila brought her laptop with her as she sat herself on the arm of Naomi’s recliner. “This kind of abstract art, lines that look like writing but actually aren’t, is called asemic writing.” She twisted the screen towards Naomi, “Isn’t that interesting?”   “Sure,” Naomi said, and looked over the Google Image results for just enough time to act like she gave a shit. “Cool,” she concluded, turning her gaze back to her book.   “So, I was thinking maybe we should name her!”   “Name who?”   “The painting.”   “Her?”   “Yeah… what about Astrid?”   “Astrid? Why Astrid?”   “I dunno,” Lila giggled, “I couldn’t think of any other name that began with AS.”   “What about Ashley?”   “Too young and dumb sounding. Astrid sounds wise… elegant… don’t you think?”   “Sure, baby, Astrid’s a great name.” And Naomi faked her second smile of the evening. It didn’t feel good. She wasn’t proud of it, but she hadn’t told Lila about the message she’d seen right before she cut herself. Maybe she could trick this Asshole, Astrid, into believing she didn’t see her messages.   Naomi wasn’t sure if the painting was predicting the future or creating it, but either way, she needed to find out.   Lila was oogling the Ass art. Seriously, it was disgusting… like watching a gaggle of girls swoon over the Fonz for absolutely. no. reason. Naomi couldn’t help but follow Lila’s gaze to the wall, and what she saw turned her stomach.   “Love,” it said. Like the first time Lila had seen it.   Naomi realized that this was another first; this was the first time the painting was letting them both read the same message. It was toying with her. Making her watch as Lila was lured to it.   Then, the word “Love,” began to fade to gray and rippled until new words began to form. The words appeared in a bouncy yet elegant script: “Lila Loves Astrid.”     Astrid   The rain drummed on the van’s rooftop; fat, wet drops that echoed through the cavernous, tinny space. It was like the world was sobbing for her, because, of course, Astrid couldn’t cry herself. She wondered if it might offer her some relief if she could. Probably not, she decided.   She had no idea where she was going, and she had absolutely no interest in finding out. She was already leaving the one place in the world where she’d wanted to be. That’s all she needed to know.   Astrid had always had such strength and control over her thoughts. Not now, though. Now her visions were chaotic; bipolar. Flashes of the fear on Lila’s face kept returning. The panic that Astrid herself had caused. She hadn’t wanted to hurt her, hadn’t wanted to leave, but for Lila’s own safety it was the only option.   Astrid forced her thoughts back to her favorite memory: Lila’s wondrous brown eyes scanning every inch of her that day in the attic; the sparkling dust making her shimmer like some kind of magickal princess. It was truly love at first sight. What Lila didn’t know, though, was that Astrid had been seeing that moment for decades. To feel what she’d hoped to be true for so long in that instant was enrapturing: Lila loved her back.   Astrid hadn’t known she was already taken, though. How could she have known? Not that it would have mattered… the heart wants what it wants; feels what it feels; loves who it loves. And Astrid’s heart chose Lila.   And Naomi had used that against her. Used love as a weapon.   Astrid was conscious, precognitive, hell, you might even call her magickal… but she was not all-knowing. She’d suspected Naomi had been lying, but if there was even a slight chance that Lila could’ve been hurt… well that’s why Astrid had told her to run away.   Light stretched across the white interior in amoebic patterned trapezoids. A piece of bare metal flashed, reminded Astrid of the glint of the knife Naomi held, the reflection in her crazed eyes. “Either she goes… or you do,” she’d said, “if I have to lose her, it won’t be to you.”   Lila hadn’t known Naomi was just around the corner, crouching in the dark, when she got home. There was no time to explain, no time to say goodbye.   Again, Lila’s panicked expression appeared in vivid detail; impossible to push away.   After Lila took off, Naomi had gotten to work. She shoved the couch askew and twisted the coffee table. She thrust her elbow into the wall, leaving a divot that sprinkled crumbled sheetrock to the floor.   She left the room briefly, but after a bit of metallic shuffling from the garage, returned with a crowbar. She passed through the living room and headed out the front door. Astrid heard the dead bolt engage. Seconds later though, there was a thump, and the sound of splintering wood as Naomi pried her way back through.   Once Naomi had returned the crowbar she stomped back into the living room and pulled Astrid off of the walls, one hand gripping each panel. She roughly stacked Astrid’s pieces together and shoved her into an industrial sized garbage bag. And then, for Astrid, everything had gone black.   They were in the car for a while after that. Maybe an hour? And then suddenly there was a deep, muffled voice mixing with Naomi’s. Astrid felt herself being lifted, swinging through the air, and then gripped by large hands that pressed into the wrinkled plastic.   Car doors opened, closed. The sound of Naomi’s car faded away and Astrid felt the open air above her as the loud garbage bag was shimmied down her sides.   The smile that spread across the man’s face showed recognition, but Astrid didn’t have a clue who he was. She remained abstract, wary of showing her ability to a stranger.   He gently leaned her against the wall of his van and strapped her securely in place. And that’s where she’d been, watching the sickly looking light leak through the rain covered windows, and filled with a strange sense of regret for letting Lila live… for she knew now that death was probably kinder than Naomi.     [Conclusion:]   Thank you my friends for listening, and thank you Dorothy for sharing Wonder-Rapture with all of us.   Please check out the cover art when you can, and click through to the show notes to visit Dorothy’s website and follow her on Instagram. If you visit dorothysiemens.com you can find all of the current work she has for sale, which includes an entire series titled “Lyrical Language,” just in case you’re interested in seeing more paintings similar to today’s featured art. You can find Dorothy on Instagram @dorothy.siemens, and her most recent work is absolutely breathtaking. She been painting in purple and teal pallets the most beautiful little impressionistic landscapes and moonscapes… if you like Monet, you don’t want to miss out on Dorothy’s latest posts.   Seriously, go, right now… alright, my friends, that’s all for today. But make sure you’re subscribed to join me on our next art-inspired adventure.   Ciao!

Today’s story is from my own blog archive, which, I realized gives me the opportunity to fill you in on more Art Ink history, because what you may not know is that this show is an expanded audio version of what I was already doing on my own blog for my own art a few years ago. And I actually have to thank Melissa for that original blog concept too, because if it weren’t for her “Tiny and Daily” teachings…   [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink10 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Me (Rebekah Nemethy) Title of Art: Sandstorm at Sea Artist’s Website: rebekahnemethy.com Instagram: @rebekahnemethy   Melissa Dinwiddie’s book The Creative Sandbox Way (check out the first 50 pages for free!)   Support Art Ink on Patreon to get goodies: rebekahnemethy.com/patreon   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs       Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Welcome back to a brand new episode of Art Ink! I feel a bit like I’m cheating this week… because despite my best efforts to sit down and write something new over the past couple of weeks, I’ve barely had time to sleep let alone get into a creative or productive groove. I have a bad habit of putting too much on my plate… I’m working on it.   But!...   The good news is that it’s nearly my favorite time of the year: Creative Sandbox Retreat time! As you’re listening to this, I’m packing my bags with comfy clothes, blank notebooks, and maybe even my camera, to head to California, where Melissa Dinwiddie hosts her annual creative retreat about an hour south of San Jose. This is either my 4th or 5th year returning… I honestly lost count hahaha. Time just slips out of my grasp when I’m there, I’m afraid to admit it, but I’ll be on my way home before I can blink I’m sure.   So why is that good news for you? Well it’s my intention to crank out some stories while I’m there. As many as I can manage in the 5 days I have.   Today’s story is from my own blog archive, which, I realized gives me the opportunity to fill you in on more Art Ink history, because what you may not know is that this show is an expanded audio version of what I was already doing on my own blog for my own art a few years ago. And I actually have to thank Melissa for that original blog concept too, because if it weren’t for her “Tiny and Daily” teachings (which you can find out more about in her book The Creative Sandbox Way), well, if it weren’t for the “Tiny and Daily” concept, I don’t think I ever would’ve started the Photo and 100 Words Project.   I needed a way to regularly get my art out into the world that wasn’t too overwhelming. Writing 100 words wasn’t a huge deal… but the idea of doing it daily was still a bit scary for me, especially because I was creating art AND writing a complimentary story to go with it. (sounds familiar huh?) So I decided to go with tiny and weekly instead: one photo and one short story of less than 100 words. It was 2014 when I started blogging weekly, writing mostly narrative nonfiction with a poem sprinkled in here and there, and I kept that up for well over a year.   Even back then I wanted to get other artists involved, though. In fact, I started an Instagram account for the Photo and 100 words project, too, though I never actually posted to that account.   A few years into it, around the time my new-found fascination with capturing tiny reflections spurred an abstract series of photos on the blog, my stories started to stretch past the 100-word mark, and the Photo and 100 Words Project evolved into Artsy Reflections.   By the time my blog trickled out to a standstill, I knew I wanted to give my stories an actual voice in the podcast medium, but it was too scary to put the whole focus on my own art and personal stories… it just seemed too selfish. But the spark for Art Ink was there… and if you listened to the very first episode of this show, you already know that story.   So today’s featured photo came from my Reflection series… let me recreate it in your brain before we move on:   [Art Description:]   If you squint at this abstract photo, it could pass for a yellowed map. It’s mostly blue and reddish-brown, with slashes of coppery gold hovering above and blending into the rest of the piece.   Imagine you’re on a boat in a Caribbean sea, approaching a red-brown desert island as you sail between two tan sand bars. Now imagine you’re in the middle of a sandstorm. Wet clumps of sand cling to your eyelashes, creating coppery vertical haloes as your watery eyes squint against the wind, distorting the scene ahead of you.   Sandstorm at Sea is what I call this photograph, and it’s this same title that sparked the following memory…   [Story:]   What are you more afraid of: a stranger’s opinion of you or death? The answer might not be as obvious as you think…   It was day three of our seaside vacation and we were just hitting the beach for the first time. By some miracle, the sun was peeking out from behind the clouds; despite the 10-day forecast that showed nothing but dark clouds and plentiful rain.   I had been under the covered balcony, starring out at the ocean, when it finally happened, and I wasted no time in trading my pjs for a tankini and digging my toes into the sand. Okay… I did make everyone pose for photos first, you should just assume that’s a given.   The waves were pounding the shore and most of the boys didn’t hesitate to jump in. I wandered along the wet shoreline feeling the warm water sweep over my feet. They were calling for me to come in, but I wasn’t so sure I could handle the stormy seas. I can swim, but I’m far from a mermaid.   It took a lot of convincing and a bit of daring me to get me to walk out any further. My boyfriend at the time insisted that he would protect me, and I only had to get past where the waves broke and into the safety of his arms.   Cautiously, I ventured deeper into the ocean. I was knee deep one second, but then, suddenly, white water was washing over my entire body and I found myself butt down back on the beach.   You’d think that my fear would give me some instinct to brace myself, I mean, I must have braced myself, but I had no idea how powerful those waves were.   I went back to wandering in the safe zone for a while. I don’t know exactly how long it was before I noticed… but I’d been strutting my stuff in front of strangers for more than a few minutes, when I finally brushed my hands over my butt to find a heaping pile of sand that had been scooped into my bathing suit bottom as I’d been pushed up the beach.   I rushed back into the ocean, instinctively, to rinse my bottom out. Apparently, the fear of people seeing me in something that resembled a saggy diaper, and the connotations that came with that, were much more threatening than drowning.     [Conclusion:]   Yup, that’s the true story of one of my first and, understandably, last experiences at the beach. Shout out to the power of the ocean to help me face my fear of public embarrassment AND my fear of being pummeled into a pulp all in one day. Hmmm… maybe I should visit the shore more often.   Well I do love the ocean, the sound of waves, the feel of the soft sand on bare feet, and the salty wind whipping inland… it’s all so magical, isn’t it? That must’ve been why I was distracted for so long. I’m giggling even now imagining the scene from a strangers point of view: look at the smile on that girl’s face, she seems intoxicated by sunshine… or perhaps self-satisfied? Oh, wow, yeah, probably self satisfied, because it looks like she just relieved herself… took a dump right in her bathing suit!   Ok, I know I’m letting my imagination get away with me… but I hope that gave you a laugh. My embarrassment is your entertainment.   And if you’re antsy for more entertainment you don’t actually have to wait two weeks. I’ve been hesitant to put this out there because I didn’t want it to seem like Art Ink has this ulterior motive… but the fact is that I’ve actually been on Patreon sharing my work since 2014, and before I go any further I have to send out my heartfelt gratitude to Yadira, Alice, and Margie for being my longest running supporters. Yadira and Alice have been there from the very beginning which means they’ve given me a whopping 55 months of support! And Margie has been supporting me for 44 months! Thank you ladies for always believing in the work I put out into the world, whether that means my work as an animal activist, my art, or a new podcast, you have been there all along. I so appreciate that, more than you could ever know.   So I’ve been on Patreon for almost 5 years, and patrons have trickled in and out as my work has evolved, and I’m thrilled to let you know that I’ve revamped my offerings once again. So getting back to how you don’t have to wait to get more entertainment, I actually recorded the first 100 blog posts from my Photo and 100 Words Project, AKA Artsy Reflections, and turned it into an exclusive audiobook that’s available only on Patreon! Not only that but I also added in some behind the scenes commentary, which again, is something you won’t be able to hear anywhere else.   For as little as $1 per month you’ll get instant access to all 100 chapters of my Artsy Reflections audio book, and you’ll join my small community of Patrons that get early access to all of my content, including new episodes of Art Ink.   There are even more rewards if you’re feeling more generous like a blooper reel of my first few audiobook projects, free copies of all newly released audiobooks I narrate, and, here’s a big one, access to digital copies of all of my fine art photography in my Patron-Only Art Library.   There’s actually a whole lot more, but seeing as my intro and conclusion this week are far surpassing the story, I’ll leave the rest for you to discover on your own. Visit rebekahnemethy.com/patreon to get the details on all the fun bonuses you can get your hands on. You’ll find a link in the shownotes.   Alright my friends, I’m off to my creative retreat so I can write you some more art-inspired stories. Love ya’ll! Thank you for listening!

I have a special treat for you in this episode of Art Ink, because today’s featured artist is not only a painter, and an art therapist, but she’s also author of the Storm of Ages series, which I am lucky enough to have had the opportunity to narrate for her. Ellie M. Jalbert is an amazing storyteller, so I’m absolutely thrilled to have her permission to share the first chapter of her book, Nightmare, with you today. What’s interesting about Ellie’s painting is not just the fact that it doubles as Nightmare’s book cover, but that it was…   [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink9 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Ellie M. Jalbert Title of Art: The Girl in the Red Dress (painting that doubles as the cover of Nightmare, the first book in the Storm of Ages series) Artist’s Website: stormofages.com Instagram: @storm.of.ages Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/StormofAges/   Listen to Storm of Ages: Nightmare (Book 1) for free with a 30-day trial on Audible   Listen to Storm of Ages: Metamorphosis (Book 2) for free with a 30-day trial on Audible   And if you want more when you’re done with those, the third book in the Storm of Ages series is available to read on Amazon.   Read Storm of Ages: Origins (Book 3)     Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs       Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Hello my friends! I have a special treat for you in this episode of Art Ink, because today’s featured artist is not only a painter, and an art therapist, but she’s also author of the Storm of Ages series, which I am lucky enough to have had the opportunity to narrate for her. Ellie M. Jalbert is an amazing storyteller, so I’m absolutely thrilled to have her permission to share the first chapter of her book, Nightmare, with you today.   What’s interesting about Ellie’s painting is not just the fact that it doubles as Nightmare’s book cover, but that it was created long before the Storm of Ages saga hit bookshelves. She painted it for an art class, and it was her professor who dubbed it The Girl in the Red Dress.   Let me try to paint with words what Ellie has created:     [Art Description:]   You can only see the back of The Girl in the Red Dress. Her left arm is wrapped around a white pillar. The elegant dress is tight at the top; it’s held up with three thin straps, fanned out around each of her shoulders, revealing two triangles of pale skin. She sits on the edge of a balcony or window sill, and so the rest of the flowing gown is bunched up at the base of the image. She wears a 5-pointed tiara, and beneath it, golden yellow waves of hair flow down, where the longest strands come to rest at a point in the middle of her lower back.   The scene she’s looking at takes up the rest of the space: a wavy, turbulent sea that’s frothing up around the edges of brown patches of earth, some of which hold tilted stone-colored buildings and temples.   Ok, with that picture in mind… I hope you enjoy this sneak listen of the Storm of Ages saga…   [There’s no transcript for the story this time, but you’re welcome to purchase the kindle or paperback version of the book on Amazon if reading is more your thing =)]       [Conclusion:]   So, what did you think of that? Do you want to hear more of Ellie’s book? Well, if you do, I have awesome news for you, you can download the first book for free by signing up for a 30-day trial on Audible… which is also free. So what do you have to lose? I’ll have a link in the shownotes for easy access to your free copy.   Storm of Ages will eventually be a 7-book series. The first 3 books are out in paperback and for the Kindle, and the first 2 are available to listen to right now.   Thank you so much for listening. If you enjoyed this chapter and especially if you go on to hear the full audiobook, make sure you follow Storm of Ages on Facebook or Instagram to be updated on the latest releases and behind the scenes fun.   And, of course, a huge shout out goes to Ellie for letting me share this sneak listen with you today. If you haven’t heard the last episode of Art Ink (episode 8) you can listen in on a conversation between Ellie and I discussing the inspiration behind the art AND the books. But, be warned, we do share a few things that might be spoilers… so listen to the books first and come back to that while you’re waiting for us to record book 3… which might be my favorite book so far!   Anyway, enough gushing from me, that’s all we have for you today. But check your podcatcher in a couple of weeks for a fresh story in your ears. Until then… ta ta for now!

Today’s episode, is not your typical Art Ink episode. And… I’m going to be honest with you… experimentation is definitely in the cards for the future of this show, so get used to it. But, before you go anywhere thinking you got screwed out of a story this week, I want you to know that you're getting two episodes today...   [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink8 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Ellie M. Jalbert (She wrote, AND painted the covers for, the Storm of Ages series!) The first 2 books are available as audiobooks via Audible and narrated by yours truly (and you can get them for free with a 30 day trial on Audible)!   Listen to Storm of Ages: Nightmare (Book 1) for free   Listen to Storm of Ages: Metamorphosis (Book 2) for free   And if you want more when you’re done with those, the third book in the Storm of Ages series is available to read on Amazon.   Read Storm of Ages: Origins (Book 3)     Follow Storm of Ages on social media:   Instagram: @storm.of.ages   Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/StormofAges/     Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs       Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]     Welcome back everyone, I’m your happy pappy host, and I’m so excited to let you all know that I finally have my elevator speech down. Go ahead ask me what I do for a living?   ::in robotic text to speech:: What do you do?   What? I don’t have a co-host and my boyfriend refuses to get behind a mic.   Anyway… the next time I have someone trapped in an elevator with me and they ask me what I do for a living I’m going to say: Well I work in a padded room and I talk to myself all day… can you guess what I do for a living?   Then they’ll either move to the farthest corner of the elevator assuming I must be schizophrenic, or they’ll be intrigued and ask me for more.   Oh, what am I if not schizophrenic? I’m an audiobook narrator.   I know, I crack myself up… and I don’t often find myself in elevators talking to strangers so I just felt the need to share here. You’re welcome.   But yeah, it probably shouldn’t surprise those of you listening that I’m an audiobook narrator, the truth is reading another writer’s work is so much more fun and less stressful than writing my own books. But I’ve also been a writer my entire life; journaling, blogging, and dabbling in fiction here and there.   So far all of the stories you’ve heard have been written, and obviously, performed by me, but today that’s going to change a lil bit.   Today’s episode, is not your typical Art Ink episode. And… I’m going to be honest with you… experimentation is definitely in the cards for the future of this show, so get used to it. But, before you go anywhere thinking you got screwed out of a story this week, I want you to know that you’re actually getting 2 episodes today.   In just a few minutes I’m going to dive into a conversation with an author friend of mine, and then you’ll get a chance to listen to the first chapter of book 1 in her Storm of Ages series, narrated by yours truly. And I’m telling you this because after editing our conversation I noticed that there may be a few spoilers up ahead - so before you move on, you might want to pause this, listen to the next episode (episode 9) and see if Nightmare pulls you in, and if it does go download the audiobook, listen, and then come back here for some behind the scenes about the inspiration behind the book! The best part is you can get it absolutely free by signing up for a 30-day trial at Audible and as usual, you can find that link in the shownotes.   Ok, now that you’ve been warned… or are returning after you took my advice and listened to the book (wasn’t it awesome!?!) I can now lead you into our conversation.   It’s been almost exactly a year since I met Ellie Jalbert, and it’s taken me nearly as long to learn how to pronounce her last name (did I get it right Ellie?!). Ellie was one of the first authors I got the chance to work with when I impulsively quit my day job and decided to launch myself into audiobooks full time. She was also the author I’ve bonded with the most. I think if you printed and stacked our emails back and forth to one another we’d have at least a novella, if not a novel.   She lovingly signed books for me and mailed them to me along with a pile of Storm of Ages bookmarks. I feel fortunate to say that my job feels more like play than work most days, and with Ellie’s books I felt that even more so, as I got to read the physical copies while I was all snuggled up on my couch.     So even before I officially launched this podcast, and despite the fact that I didn’t want this show to be interview based, I knew I’d have to have Ellie come on the show, not only because she’s an excellent storyteller, but also because I just had so many questions for her… and how fun would it be, I thought, if I recorded the very first conversation we ever had?!     [Story: Our conversation is not transcribed… guess you’ll just have to listen =P]       [Conclusion:]   Ellie and I have a lot in common. Those of you who have been listening from the beginning of this show know that it took me 2 years to bring this podcast to your ears, so I think it’s safe to say that I get in my own way too. So I want to take a moment to thank those of you out there who support us fumbling creative geniuses. If it weren’t for Ellie’s supportive family and friends Storm of Ages might never have been created and what a tragedy that would be! So thank you to Ellie’s Mom, Pop, her brother Tony, Sister in Law Sarah, and at least one of her BFFs Maggie. I’m sure there are many more of you I don’t know by name, but ya’ll are awesome! By supporting Ellie you also ended up supporting me… doesn’t it feel good to know you all are such gracious patrons of the arts?   To those of you who haven’t supported us yet, but really want to you can download your free copy of Storm of Ages: Nightmare by clicking the link in the show notes… and even though it’s free for you, Audible still pays us, so you can support us without even having to open your wallet. Again, you can hear the entire first chapter in the very next episode of this podcast right now, so give it a shot… what do you have to lose?   Alright, that’s a wrap… thank you for listening!  

I’m thrilled to be able to introduce you to King Saul’s art today. On his website he writes that his philosophy is: “to dig deep into the subconscious and build new worlds through art by tearing down the walls between beauty and horror, reality and fantasy, the hearing of pictures and the seeing of sounds. Intrigued?”…     [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink7 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: King Saul AKA Saul Bateman Title of Art: Smell Artist’s Website: https://www.king-saul.com/ Instagram: @kingsaulart   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs       Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   What’s up everyone? Welcome to a brand new episode of Art Ink!   So, many of you may not know this about me, but I think I’m far enough away from my high school years to share it without getting too embarrassed. I used to be a gothic chick. There, I said it. There was a brief period in my life when I wore black lipstick, jeans that could fit my entire body in one pant leg, and one of those ridiculously thick ball chain chokers. Back then I was fascinated with all things horror.   I’m telling you this because when you go visit our featured artist’s Instagram page, you may wonder why his art is so different from the art I have been featuring. Lately I’ve been drawn to brightly colored abstract art, but there is still a place in my heart for creepy dark art too, and I thought you might like to know where that comes from before I introduce today’s artist.   If you’ve ever seen a book called Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, which was one of my favorites growing up, you might remember the epically creepy artwork. And today’s artist has a style reminds me of these illustrations from my childhood, which brings with it memories of slumber parties and readings under blankets by flashlight. I used to love to be scared. And I’ve often wondered why I stopping seeking the thrill of a good scary story.   Anyway, this introduction might be a bit anti-climactic… because it’s only as I’ve been writing this that I realized my story doesn’t exactly match the mood of the majority of our featured artist’s work, although a scan through his Instagram page will certainly give you Edgar Allen Poe and Nightmare Before Christmas type vibes, today’s story is not scary at all and I’m doing my very best not to apologize for that… because I have a horrible habit of being sorry for everything AND because inspiration works in mysterious ways and that’s ok.   The things that inspire us don’t always show up as perfect reflections in our work. That’s what makes art so awesome, because the trip this drawing took me on, may not be the same one it’d take you on if you didn’t have me here influencing you with my own perspective.   Back in my goth chick days I was very afraid of the unknown, and over the years, while my fascination with the so-called supernatural hasn’t died down any, my fear has transformed into awe and wonder. I still ask why, all the time, seriously, I’m kinda like a 5-year-old, but I don’t automatically jump to the worst-case scenario anymore. And, so I guess that’s just my long-ass explanation for why I’m not sorry for writing today’s story. Haha.   Well, I’m thrilled to be able to introduce you to King Saul’s art today. On his website he writes that his philosophy is: “to dig deep into the subconscious and build new worlds through art by tearing down the walls between beauty and horror, reality and fantasy, the hearing of pictures and the seeing of sounds. Intrigued?”   I don’t know about you but that’s a mission I could get behind, because, yeah, I am intrigued! Aren’t you?   Let me try to paint with words what Saul’s created:     [Art Description:]   I’m not 100% sure, but to me this sketch looks like it’s done in pencil and pen. A disembodied nose hovers in the center of the design. On the bottom left a rose rests just below the nose, and there are other flowers scattered all across the bottom of the page. Swirls of scent rise up from all of the flowers, but while most of the scents float midair, the rose is sending its swirls straight into each nostril of the floating nose. On the far left a stick of incense releases a swirl of smoke that intermingles with the steam rising from a hot beverage just behind it.   Saul calls this piece “Smell,” and it’s this sketch that inspired the following ghost story I’ve titled, “The Sweet Scent of Roses.”     [Story:]   Mark sat straight up in bed. The scent of roses was so strong, it was like a bouquet of flowers was in his face. He inhaled deeply, exhaled, inhaled again.   The last time Mark had smelled a real rose was at Jasmin’s funeral. Though, before that, he couldn’t step into their home without being overwhelmed by the sweet smell.   A few more deep breaths confirmed that the scent hadn’t faded away. Over the past few years this had happened before, but it had always faded away quickly, leaving Mark to believe that the sweet sensation had been a trick of his imagination, a memory so strong his mind created it as a sort of comfort food for his soul.   He wasn’t imagining it this time, though. There were roses infusing his every breath.   Mark glanced around the room. “Jasmine?” he whispered. He didn’t think it was possible, but the scent suddenly seemed stronger. “Jasmine,” he sighed, “I knew it was you.”   Something urged him to get out of bed. He imagined Jasmine giggling in a cloud above him, a mischievous smile that thinned her big blue eyes just enough for it to be seductive, the way a thong somehow sexifies a butt cheek. Mark knew she’d laugh at that analogy if she were still here. In fact, she’d probably make it up herself. He couldn’t see her at all, of course, but it was as if she were luring him through the darkness with a rose in her teeth, always just out of reach. That was his own imagination though. If she was here it was probably more like Lakitu (lah-KEE-too), that pesky cloud guy in Super Mario Bros., but instead of flinging Spinies down to the Earth below, she had a bouquet of roses on a fishing line.   He followed the smell all the way into the hallway and it suddenly disappeared. Mark nodded his head back and forth sniffing the air, but it was gone. He turned back toward the bedroom and suddenly he was smacked in the face with sweetness. He followed his nose to the closet and walked up to his own naked body reflected in the mirrored sliding doors. Did Jasmine want him to get dressed?   The smell wafted in and out as Mark pulled on jeans and a hoodie, but never fully disappeared. He imagined Jasmine bouncing excitedly, like the moments before they got on a new rollercoaster, a fun cocktail of fear and excitement bubbling out of her heels, lifting her up and down.   As soon as his socks were on the scent led him to the front door. Then it suddenly dissipated. Mark opened the door, sniffed the air; nothing. It wasn’t until he turned around that the faint scent of roses once again seeped into his septum.   Mark was beginning to wonder if maybe the spirit leading him around might be a fairy, or some other type of tiny, flighty being, judging from the way it kept spinning him around the house.   He walked back through the hall toward the kitchen. Jasmine seemed to pause for a moment midway, and so did he until his eyes fell upon the unicorn horn kaleidoscope she’d impulsively bought in Sedona on their honeymoon. It was way too much money and he hated it, but he’d never even considered getting rid of it after she was gone.   Mark wasn’t sure if the pause was a happy, proud pause or a sad, sentimental one. Perhaps it was all of those feels. At least those were the emotions he felt.   Wandering wherever his invisible incense wanted to lead him, Mark found himself in front of the refrigerator when all of the floral tones suddenly vanished from his senses.   “Really, Jazz?” Mark asked. “I’m not hungry.”   The roses didn’t come back, however, until he’d opened the fridge door.   “How about we compromise?” he said, “I’ll have a glass of orange juice… I really haven’t been that bad, have I Jazz – that you think you need to come back and nanny me.”   The scent bounced in the air, like back in the closet. Jasmine was giggling, at least that was his interpretation of the strange way the smell tickled his nostrils. He didn’t know how to read it, though, without being able to see the expression on her face. Jasmine laughed at everything in life. Laughter was her energy, her defense mechanism, her medicine.   As soon as Mark put his empty glass down the roses vanished until his nose was pointed toward the front door. Midway back through the hall, a breath of hot, moist air brushed up the skin of his neck, “don’t forget your keys,” Jasmine whispered-or did she?, and the scent suddenly strengthened. He stopped abruptly, grabbed the keys, and headed to the garage.   As he drove the mile that led out of their private drive the roses remained as an undertone. When he got to the stop sign Mark asked, “Which way?”   He flicked the turn signal up and the green arrow blinked towards the right. Jasmine pulled her roses back out of his world. When he pushed the lever to signal left the floral smell invaded his nostrils times ten.   “To the left it is then,” Mark said.   Several turns and miles later, Mark found himself turning into the Whole Foods parking lot. He’d never shopped here himself, but Jasmine used to come here weekly.   “Are you trying to make me eat healthy, Jazz?” he whispered softly, “because we both know that’s about as unlikely as a rabbit pulling a magician out of her hat.”   That bouncy tickle hit his nose again and Mark mentally checked himself. Either she thought he was hilarious, which was doubtful, as she’d heard that one at minimum a dozen times, or she was excited about what was coming next. And despite Jasmine’s constant stream of healthy meals, she’d never been that excited about food. That she tolerated cooking would be a nice way to put it, it was an obligation. No, whatever Jazz was excited about, it must be something else.   The sweet scent of roses led Mark into the store. “Do I need a cart, Jazz?” He whispered, hoping no one noticed him seemingly talk to himself. All sweetness dissipated immediately.   “I’ll take that as a no,” he said spinning in a 180 from the corner of parked carts to face the produce section. He walked slowly along the chilled wall of leafy greens as the smell seeped back into his senses. He passed the spinach, a bit surprised that Jasmine hadn’t stopped him… she used to sneak a handful or two into his smoothie every morning, he remembered the look on her face when he caught her a year into it… surprise, but then smug satisfaction as she informed him he’d been drinking spinach for at least a year already and if he tasted it now it was all in his head.   Mark was so caught in the memory that he didn’t see the puddle he was approaching. As if a “too little too late” warning as his feet slid out from under him, the tiny sprinklers above the fresh herbs and broccoli misted the left side of his body as he went down. Just before his head ricocheted off of the low shelf and onto the hard floor, the strongest smell yet smacked him in the face. Jasmine was giggling again… she always did find it funny when his clumsiness got the best of him, often apologizing and uncontrollably cackling at the same time. Why would any of that change after death? That’s the last thing Mark thought of before everything went black.   ***   “Are you ok?” a concerned voice asked.   The voice brought Mark back to reality, back to the grocery store, but it did nothing to tame the ghostly remnants of his late wife.   In fact the sweet smell was so strong now, it was starting to sicken him. He couldn’t escape it. It was as if he were dropped into a densely packed pool of potpourri, unable to swim to the surface, petals stuffed into his mouth and nostrils.   Mark’s head was throbbing, the pulse pinching the back of his left eye. He slowly parted his lids, letting the light in cautiously, luckily the silhouette above him blocked most of the light. Long, dark, curly hair made a sort of cave around the woman’s face.   She spoke again, “Can you hear me?”   “Yeah… I’m ok,” Mark managed after a minute.   The woman grabbed onto his forearm and pulled him to sitting. The mist still spritzed the air and clung to her curls like glittery morning dew. Behind her an abandoned cart stood askew, empty except for a single bouquet of red roses. Another bouquet lay abandoned on the floor somewhere between where she knelt and the path back to her cart. “I keep telling them about this puddle,” the woman said, “I almost went down myself last week. Do you think you can stand?”   “I think so.” Mark said and then tried. The woman helped steady him as she got to her own feet. As she rose her face was revealed from the shadows. Worried turquoise eyes darted around his face.   “I’m fine,” he assured her, though, truth be told, Jasmine’s floral infusion was still at full power and his queasiness was on the rise.   Mark’s lie did nothing to calm the stranger’s features, though, so he headed towards the scattered flowers on the floor to prove himself.   “Thanks,” she smiled as she accepted the now disheveled bouquet, shifted the unruly flowers to one arm, hugging them to her chest, and extended her free hand. “I’m June,” she said.   “Mark,” he replied taking her hand, and he couldn’t believe it, but the scent actually got stronger, and he involuntarily gagged.   “Are you sure you’re all right?” June asked, her features back on high alert, “you don’t look so good… are you nauseated?”   “Yeah, just a little, but it’s the smell of those flowers doing it, not my fall.” Mark said weakly.   “Really?” June said. She glanced at the flowers in her arms and then back at him. She didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know, nausea is a common side effect of a concussion,” she said as she turned to place the flowers back in her cart, “you should really get yourself checked out.”   “I’ll be fine,” Mark managed a smile as he said it. Jasmine had let up on the perfume since he’d voiced his problem aloud and his stomach was settling.   “Ok, Mark,” June said, “but if you change your mind, I’d be happy to give you a ride to the emergency room.”   “Nah, I’m good.”   “Ok… well, good luck,” she said somewhat awkwardly and pushed her cart down the aisle.   As June got farther and farther away, so did Jazz’s scent. Had he been imagining this smell the whole time? Was it just June’s flowers he’d been smelling since he’d entered the store?   Unsure what to do next without his floral guide, he headed back outside and sat on a bench.   “Jazz?” He whispered.   Nothing.   “Jasmine, are you there?” He tried again.   Still nothing.   “What was that all about?” He muttered to himself this time. “Am I going crazy?”   Mark sat there for a while, reimagining the day he’d had so far. To his left, the automatic doors slid opened and closed, popping out people like a factory line of grocery Barbie dolls. A seemingly endless stream of blondes in yoga attire walked past him.   He attempted one more time to prove his own sanity. “How do you drown a Whole Foods Barbie?” he paused. “Put a scratch and sniff sticker at the bottom of her kombucha cup!”   That did it, and he could faintly sense the roses bouncing in his nose again.   Through the glass doors he spotted June checking out, she was like black beauty in a herd of palominos. The invisible incense ramped up again, and suddenly, he finally got what Jasmine was trying to say.   “Jazz…” he whispered, looking down at the ground. “I don’t know if I’m ready yet. I still miss you so much.”   She was still there, but she was pulling back, as if to say, “don’t be ridiculous, Mark.” It was easy enough to imagine… she’d said it plenty of times before.   He looked up and to the left and saw that June was heading toward the double doors. “I love you Jazz,” he said. “Thank you.”   Mark rose just as the doors parted and when June locked eyes with him, a broad smile spread across her face.   “You change your mind, killer?”   “Well the thing is, I kind of hate doctors,” Mark confessed, “but maybe you can keep me company? Ya know, just in case I take a turn for the worse?”     [Conclusion:]   A big shout out goes to King Saul for being so kind as to share his art with all of us today, I’m so grateful for your generosity, Saul! If you’re interested in the cover art used for this episode you should know that a slightly altered version of “Smell” is actually available as a linoleum print. This is 1 of the 5 pieces that are a part of Saul’s Synesthesia Series.   In case you don’t know what synesthesia is, it’s described as a “condition” in the dictionary, but I’m going to call it an ability… I might even go so far as to say it’s a superpower, and it’s when someone’s senses connect in ways that allow them to perceive things most people can’t. For example, someone with synesthesia may be able to hear colors, see sounds, or taste words. It’s truly fascinating to me… I remember reading awhile back that some people with synesthesia are able to see a wider spectrum of colors, but that’s when I got a little jealous and stopped reading.   So, now on top of wanting to write a scarier story to pair with Saul’s work, I’m also wishing my main character had synesthesia. Ugh… well there’s always another story to tell. You know that cliché about how a picture is worth 1000 words… well honestly I think that’s a vast understatement… maybe 1000 stories is more like it. And that reminds me, I’ve been putting together a long list of writing prompts for any of you artists out there who struggle with writing about your art. I have no idea when it’ll be done, but I do know that it’ll be super helpful when it is, so I’ll be sure to let you know as soon as it’s available.   So, anyway, please do make sure to check out Saul’s work on Instagram @kingsaulart or you can visit his website at king-saul.com.   Alrighty, my friends, that’s a wrap! Thank you so much for listening! Don’t forget to check back here in two weeks for the next episode… or better yet subscribe to the show so you don’t have to worry about missing out. I’ll catch ya next time!

Alisa Burke is the kind of artist I want to be when I grow up, because she just doesn’t limit herself creatively… yet her work is still so unmistakable that you know whose work you’re seeing at first glance…     [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink6 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Alisa Burke Title of Art: untitled IG post Artist’s Website: https://www.shopalisaburke.com/ Artist’s Blog: www.alisaburke.com Instagram: @alisakburke   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs      Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Hello, my friends! Welcome back to another episode of Art Ink, I’m so grateful that you’ve decided to share your ears with me today.   The story you’re about to hear was sparked by another great artist I discovered on Instagram. What I really love about her art is that she works in so many mediums, and what I really love about her is that she’s so open to sharing her process with her fans. If you scroll through this artist’s Insta page you’ll find art journaling, watercolor, black and white doodling, hand-painted pottery, mandalas, photography, and even enormous murals that cover an entire wall. I haven’t even mentioned the many hand-embellished items you might scroll past… seriously I’ve seen everything from shoes to refrigerators on this artist’s feed.   Alisa Burke is the kind of artist I want to be when I grow up, because she just doesn’t limit herself creatively… yet her work is still so unmistakable that you know whose work you’re seeing at first glance.   With so much gorgeous art to choose from I found myself having decision regret while working on this episode… it’s not that I didn’t still love the piece I picked, but there’s just infinite beauty and inspiration in a lot of her work and every time I see a new piece it’s my new favorite.   But the reason I was inspired to write today’s story didn’t just come from looking at Alisa’s art, the caption is what solidified the direction I’d be going in. But before I share the caption with you, it’ll just make more sense after I describe today’s featured art.   [Art Description:]   With a quick glance you’ll see a yellow and red flower, but upon further inspection you’ll see that this flower has been pulled apart and then put together again, in fact, this one flower is a mosaic, you could even call it a flower mandala, that’s made of at least 3 different flowers.   In it’s very center is a yellow mum (at least I think these are mums), and it looks like about half of its petals have been evenly removed from the outside. There is a faint orangey tint to the outer rim of this yellow centerpiece. Surrounding this yellow middle are 3 rings of plucked petals, all carefully placed so that they appear to be spreading outwards. The first ring around the center is made of red petals, the petals surrounding those are white at their inner points and transition to pale pink on the wider outer parts. The last, and largest ring is made up of yellow petals that transition to red, and this outermost ring is just a tad messier than the rest.   The remnants of the flowers used, and some loose petals are scattered to the left and bottom of the image. In the bottom left corner a half-opened pair of scissors lies among them.   And the caption Alisa used along with the photo? She wrote, “One of the most important things I’ve learned is that things can beautiful even when they fall apart. #beautyinbrokenness”   I call this piece of fiction, Beautifully Broken. Enjoy.   [Story:]   She looked into the mirror, ran her tongue over the bloated crack, tasted the coppery blood, felt the familiar sting as the dried salt from her tears mingled with salvia and slid over the wound. How many times had she licked at her wounds like this? She’d lost track. Countless times.   She ran her fingers under the eye she couldn’t open; the left eye. He was right handed, so this was normal. She winced, not at the pain so much as the thought: when did this become normal?   “How was your day?” He’d said when he walked in the front door an hour earlier. He didn’t have his uniform on, so obviously he wasn’t coming from work, but she knew better than to question it.   “Good.” She gave him a practiced smile, so practiced that she almost convinced herself of her happiness.   “How were your mentees today?” he asked.   “Oh, you know, the same as usual,” she said and he smiled slowly… too slowly.   Suddenly she was on the ground nursing her rapidly swelling eye and shielding the rest of her face. Through the cracks of her arms and fingers she could see that his fists were still clenched.   The first strike was almost always the most powerful punch. He wasn’t a big man, but he made up for it in strategy. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn’t in uniform, she remembered thinking, that he didn’t have a belt full of weapons to use on her.   “You wanna tell me where the fuck you were today?” he said, “because I know you weren’t at the center!”   The replay in her mind’s eye faded and she was in front of the mirror again, looking at the result of that moment. The pink skin around her eye was already reddening, and she knew exactly the spectrum of colors her eye would transition through before she could show her face with confidence again.   After most of these attacks she’d try to avoid the mirror as best as she could, but the peripheral shadow was like a magnet pulling her pupils, and the inevitable glance would always shock her-sending self-pitying sorrow flying up through her throat, manifesting in gut-wrenching sobs.   This time was different, though. This time she saw not sadness but strength in her face. She took in a deep breath, and as she exhaled, extended a steady hand in front of her, traced the broken line of her bottom lip in the reflection. Her mind’s eye healed her face: the swollen lip shrinking, the crack shriveling up into a squiggly scab until it disappeared, the bruising under her eye spreading then contracting as it morphed from red to purple to blue, at the peak of its darkness, and then fading into a pale green transitioning to yellow and finally a dirt smudge of brown before it completely disappeared. There was beauty in the power her body had to revitalize itself again and again and again.   This time was different, she assured herself. This time she was leaving.   Her gaze drifted from the reflected lip, down her finger, and to the sliver of glass in the side of her hand. She replayed the last blow of the night; so faded despite the fact it’d happened minutes ago… he’d backhanded her across the face as she’d been gasping to recover her breath.   “I asked you a question, cunt!” He screamed just before that, and the name gave her power. She’d recently learned what that word actually meant, all encompassing feminine power.   She pushed herself up to sitting, leaned back against the wall and said, calmly, and with her own version of a sinister smile, “you asked if I wanted to tell you, and no, actually, I don’t really feel like telling you.”   This he wasn’t expecting. Her unbridled answer seeped into one ear and steamed out the other, scrambling his brain in the process and narrowing his eyes.   Almost as fast as his first blow, his hand was clenched around her throat. He tightened his grip and slid her up the wall. “Where the fuck were you?” he demanded, pulling her towards him and lifting her from the floor so that she had to stretch to keep her tiptoes grounded.   She struggled for air, clawed at his wrist, and he let her down and loosened his grip just long enough for her to choke out, “None of your fucking business.”   With that he swung her around the entryway to the opposite wall and thrust her backwards. Her head crashed into a mirror and she heard multiple cracks travel past her ears. He pulled her forwards and slammed her back again, and again, and again… and again? Was it four times… or was it five… six? She couldn’t remember. What she did remember was the way her brain shook inside her head, her vision foggy and vignetted with black, and the unending shower of glass; with every blow it was like another windswept wave of sparkling rain ran down the walls in slow motion, so slow it was like soft static as it hit the floor.   At the memory, she ran her uninjured hand through her hair and a faint crystal rain chimed against the floor far below. Even the gentle movement of her hair deepened the throb in her skull. She was too afraid of what she’d find to feel her scalp, though.   Looking back down at her hand it was more of a shard than a sliver, and she pulled it out with her nails. Blood appeared in its place; dripped down her forearm where more of the broken mirror clung. She brushed most of it off and another rush of glass rain tinkled against porcelain. A few pieces remained, though, and with tweezers she picked them out. One by one the silver slivers pinged into the sink… like the drizzle after a downpour.   “I came to surprise you.” He’d said after he finally let go of her throat. “I was going to take you out to dinner. It’s our fucking anniversary you know.”   No, she hadn’t known; hadn’t remembered; hadn’t cared to remember. Though she couldn’t get a grip on the number of years, it may as well have been forever; fresh out of the foster system at 18 years old, marrying him seemed the brighter alternative to the street life she’d seen many of her peers succumb to.   Clutching her throat and gasping for air, she couldn’t respond right away, but eventually she rasped out, “why the fuck would I want to celebrate how many years I’ve lived in this hell?”   His eyes narrowed quicker this time, but the wrinkles in his forehead still registered a split second of shock. And that’s when he’d backhanded her, splitting her lip and knocking her down into the puddle of glass at their feet, where she’d instinctively broken her fall with her forearm.   He’d stormed away after that, and only once a few minutes of silence had passed did she finally raise herself out of the jagged pool of mirror pieces. She looked down at herself in the scattered, broken glass. Her eyes were pulled to the bright bloody gash on her lips. A tear ran past the corner of her mouth in one jagged piece, and jumped to another shard that caught it sliding over the edge of her chin. She’d felt as broken and shattered as she looked spread out across the floor.   The pink-tinged slivers coating the bottom of the sink replaced the broken glass from her memory. After she extracted the rest of the mirror from her arm, she looked up at herself, suddenly whole again.   With a double layer of tissues she carefully wiped up the glass. The action was automatic, cleaning up these messes had also become normal, and her mind rebelled against her body. She imagined throwing the handful up into the air like jagged confetti, and watching it scatter across the bathroom floor. She also imagined him drowsily stepping down into the trap she’d laid out with bare feet, and that look of surprise she was coming to relish lately.   Her open palm hesitated over the trashcan, but then, suddenly struck with an idea, she bundled her collection up inside the tissues and pushed it into her pocket.   She tiptoed up to the bedroom doorway’s edge. He was snoring like a lawnmower. This was also normal; he never lost sleep over one of their altercations, no matter how bad he hurt her. In fact, it wouldn’t be far-fetched to say he slept better. Apparently, it took a lot out of the poor, little guy to beat the shit out of his wife.   In the kitchen, she slowly opened the cabinet door beneath the sink, felt around behind the cleaning supplies, and pulled out a small backpack. From inside the front pocket she pulled out a burner phone she’d bought months ago and navigated to the texting icon.   “It’s time.” She typed and then sent it to the only contact listed. She’d hoped that she’d have a few more months to save up more money, but now that he’d found out she was no longer volunteering at the youth center he’d never stop until he knew what she was up to. Those luxuriously long days daydreaming at the library were over. But now it was time to make those daydreams come true.   She felt bad knowing that she’d be standing up all of her tutoring students, and she’d managed to snag quite a few regulars in the short time she’d been teaching English, but it was now or never, and the less people who knew where she was headed the better.   She checked inside the bag for what seemed like the millionth time: passport, birth certificate, social security card, and cash cushioned between a couple of changes of clothes. The documents were actually replacements she’d managed to acquire since planning her escape… she figured it’d buy her more time if he thought she’d have to come back for something essential.   She returned the phone to the pack’s front pocket where she’d stashed one other essential item, professional grade make up, the kind of foundation Hollywood uses to cover up tattoos. She was hoping she wouldn’t need it, but was glad she’d thought of the worst-case scenario.   The last thing she did before walking out the door was to sweep up the remaining pieces of glass in the hallway. She dumped the dustpan into a plastic bag, added the tissue bundle from her pocket, sealed the top, and stowed it in her backpack.   Twenty minutes later she was racing down the highway toward freedom.   “Slow down Penny,” she said, “if we get pulled over, I’ll never get out of here.”   Penny took her foot off the gas until the car coasted down to the speed limit. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m just so nervous.”   Then after a pause, “Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, there are plenty of other places you can go inside the US and be safe. Safer,” she stressed, “most likely.”   “We’ve been through this,” she said as she laid a thick coat of foundation over the darkening skin around her eye, “I’ve done my research, it’s perfectly safe in Guatemala.”   “If you say so.”   “And I do.”   They were silent for the next couple of hours. It wasn’t a comfortable silence, but nor was it uncomfortable. Bittersweet was probably the best word for it. They were both happy she’d be free of her demon husband, but equally devastated about what her departure meant for their own friendship.   When they pulled up to the Philadelphia Greyhound station, Penny rummaged through her purse and pulled out an envelope. “Your bus doesn’t leave until 9, though, do you want me to wait with you until then?”   “No, you need to get back to NY so that if he seeks you out you’ll be there.”   “Right.”   “Did you-“   “I used the pre-paid Mastercard for both tickets, don’t worry.”   “Thanks, Penny.” She leaned over the center console and stretched her arms out for a hug.   Penny gripped her hard, “You take care of yourself, okay?” she whispered to cover up the sob trying to fight its way out. “And you call me when you get there, so I know you’re safe.”   “You need to get rid of that phone, we talked about this.”   “And I will, as soon as I know you made it there ok.” Her stiff look said she wouldn’t be wavering on this stipulation.   “Fine, I’ll call you… once.”   “That’s all I’m askin’.” And for the first time that night, Penny smiled.     It had taken her 6 months to plan her escape, but the 2 days it took her to reach her final destination were the longest 48 hours of her life. She doubted she’d be so unlucky as to come across another cop from her husband’s precinct, or anyone else who might know her, on a bus to the middle of nowhere in Kansas City, Missouri, but she kept her head low and her guard up nevertheless.   The one time she’d actually gotten the courage to call for help it’d been futile. One officer had walked right past her and shook her husband’s hand, and the other, while sympathetic, informed her in no uncertain terms that her husband was a powerful man and she’d best not anger him again. She had no idea how far his reach stretched, so she couldn’t be too careful.   By the time she’d gotten to the Kansas City International Airport, she could taste her freedom, but the nausea didn’t turn into butterflies until she was stuttering through broken Spanish at the information booth in Guatemala City.   Aside from the flight and bus tickets, a few pages of loose leaf were also tucked away in the envelope that Penny had given her. She herself had written some key phrases, addresses, and phone numbers down and had her friend hold onto them for safe keeping, that way if her husband had found her getaway bag, he’d still be in the dark about where she planned to run away to. Fortunately, it hadn’t come to that.   She bought a new burner phone at the airport and called Penny as soon as she landed.   “You were right, girl, he did come looking for you.”   “And what did you tell him?”   “I told him I had no idea where you were, but that I hoped you met a new man and ran off into the sunset… the look on his face was priceless!”   “Penny,” she chastised, but a smirk crept over her features and seeped into her voice, “you shouldn’t have done that.” She imagined it was that stupidly surprised look she’d drawn out of him, not once but twice, the last night she’d seen him.   After another heartbreaking goodbye, she tossed the phone in the trash and headed into the mob of drivers at the airport’s entrance.     Six months later…   She closed her book and sighed. It was the most satisfied kind of sigh: like the exhale you’d hear from someone taking their first breath of fresh air after years of living underground. It was a sigh that said freedom, a sigh that sang gratitude, a sigh she was happily hearing on the daily these days.   She knew from the shape of the triangular patch of sunlight creeping across the orange tiled floor that it was around 3pm. Being so close to the equator meant that the sun rose at 6am and the sun set at 6pm, give or take a few minutes. If it weren’t for the dozen or so students on her schedule, she might’ve opted to live without clocks. To check herself, she glanced at the digital numbers on her nightstand, yup, it read 3:02. She could totally live without clocks.   She looked around her modest room. Furnished with only a bed, nightstand, desk, and chair, it was definitely not a place she imagined she’d come to love so much. All of the furniture was so simple and plain that it was obviously handmade. Actually, “simple and plain” were euphemisms for what her first impression of the decor had been when she’d arrived, “fugly” was the word that ran through her mind, and her opinion hadn’t really changed on that front.   The walls were white stucco, and on her first night there, the only thing that had decorated them was one monster-sized cockroach that kept her awake half the night in fear. She’d planned on finding her own place as soon as she could, but the family that ran the bed and breakfast style inn had grown on her and, more importantly, she felt safe there.   Her room was on the top floor of the three-story house, and that meant she had the rooftop patio pretty much to herself. Weddings at the nearby church meant frequent fireworks, and she always had a private front row seat.   Surprisingly enough it was cheaper to stay there then to rent her own place, and they fed her! But despite her extended stay, these living arrangements were still only temporary, which was why she hadn’t done much to decorate. Leaned up against the wall on the little desk, though, was her one decorative contribution: a 12-inch white ceramic plate turned mosaic. The letters, haphazardly stitched together in shattered glass, read “Beautifully Broken.”   Some of the slivers and shards were still tinged with pink, she noticed as she leaned back in her chair, and that was ok… she still had a lot of healing to do, but it comforted her to know how far she’d come.     [Conclusion:]   Thank you so much for tuning in and listening to today’s story. And a sincere shout out to Alisa for allowing us to share her work with you today. Don’t forget that you can see the art that sparked this story right in your podcast app, if your app of choice shows episode specific artwork. If you’re not seeing it, take a look at the full description of the show to see it there, and if all else fails you can always visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink6 to see it on my website.   One thing I forgot to mention about Alisa at the top of the show is that she has over 90 online art courses available on her website shopalisaburke.com oh, and Alisa is spelled A-l-i-s-a Burke with an E at the end. It’s all written out for you in the show notes. But you should definitely take a look at her awe-inspiring Instagram feed @alisakburke first to get an overall look at all the wonderful things she could teach you. Warning… you may not be able to stop scrolling. Just sayin’!   Anyway, that’s all for today. I’ll be back with a new art-inspired story in a couple of weeks. But until then, as my friend Melissa Dinwiddie likes to say, don’t beat yourself up, love yourself up.

  [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink5 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Email me your favorite podcast app that shows episode specific artwork at bekah@rebekahnemethy.com   1st Artist: Kaan Armutcu Title of Art: Butterfly in “butter” Instagram: @kaanthebald   2nd Artist: Jacqsun Jones Title of Art: The Butterfly Constellation (it’s my tattoo!!) Artist’s Website: dermapunct.com Instagram: @dermapunct   I’d love to link you to Kaan’s Butterfly in “butter” painting (the inspiration behind the 1st story), but it appears he’s deleted most of his posts. You’ll just have to use your imagination.   Puttylike.com to find out more about what it means to be a multipotentialite.     Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs       Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Hello, and welcome back to another episode of Art Ink. Before we even get started today, I have to give you a tech update. It seems like all of the big podcast listening apps suck, and I suppose I just got lucky with Podcast Addict. I didn’t have time to test apps… ok I didn’t remember to test apps, before I launched the first few episodes of Art Ink. But I assumed since my “obscure android app” showed individual art for each episode, that it was pretty much standard on all podcast players. Nope, not so much, and I’ve since found out that Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, and Stitcher do not show episode specific art. Spotify shows artwork, but doesn’t include links in the shownotes, which appear as a giant unformatted mess of text, but hopefully that will change soon as they improve and update the Spotify app.   Anyway, this isn’t to complain but to let you know a couple of ways that you can check out the featured art easily if your app sucks! You can 1) click the link in the shownotes or 2) download one of the apps I recommend   So the easiest way to see the art is to visit the link in the show notes, how you get there will vary in every podcast player, but you want to read the episode description in full. The very 1st line of text in the shownotes includes a link to my website. If you’re not seeing any of this you can always just manually type it into your browser it’ll always be rebekahnemethy.com/artink – and then the episode number that you’re trying to look up. So that’s (repeat the web address) and I’ll spell it for you quick: r-e-b-e-k-a-h-n-e-m-e-t-h-y-dot-com-slash-art-ink-5 for example if you wanted to look up this episode.   And if you’re just agitated with your sucky app try one of these:   My favorite app for listening to podcasts is Podcast Addict, it’s free and awesome, but it’s only available for Android devices. (I’m not getting paid to say that by the way, it’s just that it’s the app I’ve been using ever since I discovered my first podcast.)   If you have an iPhone you can use Castbox, and so far this is the only app I’ve found that shows episode art and the shownotes the way I originally intended for you to see them… huuh, that’ll teach me to have expectations, right? Probably not.   If you’re using a different app and everything I’m talking about is showing up for you, please email me and let me know about it bekah@rebekahnemethy.com so I can share with everyone else. And make sure to include what phone you’re using.   Ok, enough of that, let’s move onto today’s show.   Today you’re getting a bonus, because this episode actually includes two stories. Ya see, I was so excited to begin creating this podcast that I let all the inspiration intoxicate me and wrote the first few stories before I ever asked any of the artists if I could share their work on the show. I got lucky, and our first few artists were more than happy to be included, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with the artist I’d planned on featuring today. So I don’t feel comfortable using his work without permission, but the art is beautiful, and the story is written and recorded, so I’ve decided to experiment with the format and give you a themed episode today. And our theme is butterfly art.   The first story, Flutterby, is flash fiction inspired by an oil painting, but unlike our previous episodes, you’re going to have to go into the shownotes and click the link in order to see the art. The artist who painted it can be found @kaanthebald on Instagram.   The second story was a long time coming. I mean, I knew I wanted to share the story behind my new tattoo before it was even on my body, but I felt that I wasn’t ready to be completely honest about it.   The fact that I had a butterfly story already recorded and ready to share and no art to go with it definitely made my choice to “make myself ready” happen much more prematurely than I would’ve liked. Still, the decision ping ponged in my head for a long time. But, as you’ll soon hear… it was pretty much meant to be. The Butterfly Constellation is a true and vulnerable story… you might think I’m bat shit crazy at the end of it… but whatever, I can’t control what you think of me anyway… despite my best efforts. So I’m gonna just let go and be real with you.   Here we go. Okay, let’s start with a description of Kaan’s art:     [Art Description 1:]   The blue, black, and white butterfly in this oil on canvas painting looks ethereal or fuzzy from movement from far away. Up close it’s almost as if the butterfly is glitching out, like it’s not done appearing on the screen, or like it’s been slashed up around the black and white edges of its wings, and the knife that struck it could also cut the fabric of reality. The golden buttery background shows through small scuffs and scratches on the butterfly’s wings, just as the blackness of its wings blends into the butter.   I could almost imagine a butterfly stuck in the butter, flapping its wings to escape… embedded deep enough to still be seen but not shallowly enough to break free.   And the story that inspired this piece of art is called Flutter By.     [Story 1: Flutter By]   I was still in shock when I heard the sirens blare. I don’t know how long I stood there like that. I guess the length of time it took the fire department to show up after… someone called them. Who had even called them? It wasn’t me.   Einstein lay panting on the grass. In between his big white paws lay a stilled blue and black butterfly. It only took one dumb, playful whack to drain this fly of anymore flutter, and when the fluttering ceased, so too did Einstein’s interest.   His name was a joke, of course, but I had to give him credit… at least he wasn’t stupid enough to run up to the burning building. Too dumb to be afraid, though, he stared at the flames with dopey eyes.   I bent down and picked up the lifeless butterfly. Its wings were surprisingly pristine; just a little ruffled around the edges. It had sacrificed its life for mine, even if it had done it unknowingly, and I was grateful.   “M’am, please!” I was jarred by the booming voice that was suddenly on top of me.   I looked up into a dingy yellow jacket that had seen a few too many fires, and I had to crane my neck to see into his amber-tinged eyes.   “You and your dog need to get out of the way! Come on, let’s go!” He barked with a wide-eyed look.   I carefully balanced the butterfly in the palm of one hand, and took hold of Einstein’s collar with the other.   “What’s that?” the fireman asked, nodding to the beautiful bug I held, as he firmly pressed one hand against my back and guided me toward the frenzied street.   “This butterfly saved my life,” I said, “my dog saw it fly by and dashed out the door after it… I was just about to close the screen, needed some fresh air, ya know? The timing was just- I would have been right next to the stove.” I let out a relieved, amazed sigh.   “Wow,” he said as he directed me to sit on the back of a random SUV, “that was a lucky break… well I’m glad it was her and not you.”   “Yeah.” I said, and he smiled weakly before he walked off to do something more useful.   He became an indistinct silhouette against the golden-hour yellow that spilled from the very point perspective made from the long dirt road, and backsplashed the busy bodies that scuttled about the scene.   The flames illuminated her iridescent wings as I held my flighty savior up against the buttery sky.   [Transition]   Again, the art that sparked this story, is not shown on our cover, but if you’re interested to see it check out the shownotes for a link. Or you can visit kaanthebald on Instagram (spell it).   Ok, now onto our next story for today. And I guess we can call it our feature story, as you can see the art I’m referring to as the cover art of this episode. But for those of you who are driving or otherwise engaged, I’ll give you a little description to hold you over until you get a chance to look.   First of all, although the idea was mine, Jacqsun Jones from Dermapunct Tattoo is the artist that brought it all to life.   [Art Description 2:]   At first glance you notice a butterfly, a bee, and a flower sketched against a blue, pink, and purple watercolor background. When you look closer, though, you’ll notice the stars connected within the outlined images. This is the Orion constellation reimagined. Here’s the story that sparked the art. I call it Orion’s Metamorphosis.   [Story 2: Orion’s Metamorphosis]   “Do you have a special connection with any one constellation?” the lady on YouTube asked, “if so, perhaps that’s where you’re from.”   I immediately flashed back to every Friday of my childhood, head leaning against the window of my dad’s car, eyes gazing upward at the butterfly in the sky. Three stars in a neat, diagonal row made up the body, and the four brightest stars that surrounded it stretched out into wings in my imagination. It was many years later that I learned that this butterfly I saw was more widely known as Orion’s belt, but it would forever remain the butterfly constellation to me, especially after I found out that Orion was a hunter. Orion, might have been a hunter, I thought, but in my head I wrapped that bitch in a cocoon and he’s a butterfly now!   I’d always believed in reincarnation and I’d also spent a lifetime looking up at the stars in awe of the infinite universe with a certainty that we are not alone. So when I heard the term starseed, I was instantly intrigued.   When I searched for further information on the supposed beings that lived in that part of the universe, I discovered that it was a war riddled star system. And I didn’t connect with that on any level, in fact I felt repelled by this information and assumed that my strange attraction to the butterfly constellation must have nothing to do with my origin as a starseed. Although now as I write this it suddenly makes sense that I could be so anti-war without experiencing it (at least here on Earth) because perhaps I have experienced it elsewhere.   It was weeks, maybe even months later, that I came across another YouTube video that went over various starseed origins and the traits commonly associated with different areas. I still thought I might be a starseed, but I wasn’t sold on Orion as my origin.   I had my laptop open, and I was just listening as I cooked dinner, and then, suddenly, it was as if the strange robotic voice was talking directly to me. It was as if the video were describing every quality, for better or for worse, that made up my flawed human personality. I paused, spatula in hand, walked over to my computer, backed up the video and replayed the whole thing again.   Orions have a deep thirst for knowledge and are interested in a variety of subjects. I love learning, and actually, I have a bad habit of buying a new online course before I’ve finished the last one I purchased. I used to fear I’d be labeled as a flake every time I took up a new hobby and dropped an old one, but I’ve recently come to find out that I’m just a multipotentialite… what? It’s a real thing, check out puttylike.com if you don’t believe me. There are lots of us.   Orions have strong ideals and they try very hard to convince others of their beliefs and tend to take it personally when they can’t get others to respect them. They are always seeking validity. Oh my is this true, anyone who’s known me for more than five minutes would probably agree, from animal rights to fluoride I tend to get a bit worked up.   Orions can be very critical of others, and they are especially critical of themselves. I hate to admit it, but this is true, too. I’m working on my judgy tendencies, though, but it’s a process. In fact I’m sure it was my lack of self love and worthiness that probably delayed this podcast for so long. Who gives a shit about what I have to say? Well, I guess if you’re still listening you do… so thanks love. It’s a funny thing, but it seems like the more I learn to love myself, the less I judge others. And often the thing I judge most harshly in other people is something I most judge myself on. Odd, but true.   Anyway… Orions are also textbook introverts. Let me just say that in the past couple of years I’ve implemented a socialization limitation of 1 in-person interaction per week. Even this is too much at times. I require at least a week’s notice to get myself prepared, so I rarely accept spontaneous invitations. And often, as any plans to interact with other humans approaches, whether it’s with my best friend to have some wine or a special event that I was initially super excited about, I start to get anxious and have the impulse to cancel. It’s not that I won’t have a great time; I do truly enjoy spending time with my bff, but it’s just really draining and I usually need 24 hours of recovery time to start functioning at my peak again.   Orions can be equally spiritual and skeptical. I was raised as a Jehovah’s witness, but even as a kid, I rejected a lot of the stories I was told. I’ve been seeking spiritual guidance my whole life, but all organized religions I’ve looked into rub me the wrong way. I’m also positive there’s a ghost or energetic being in my house, though I have tried to disprove this theory in any way possible. Yeah, I’d say I’m spiritually skeptical.   There was only one thing that I didn’t totally connect to, and that’s the fact that most Orions are more logical than they are emotional in relationships. No, that’s not me at all… I’m totally the emotional being in the relationship. Although when I look outside of romantic relationships the logical part of me has always overpowered my heart for sure. Take the decision to get a journalism degree over a creative writing degree for instance… or how it took a nervous breakdown for me to follow my heart and quit my day job. Well it may have taken more than 30 years, but I’m learning to live more in my heart now… better late than never right?   I had wanted to get a new tattoo for ages… but I kept getting stuck on what to get. Years before I’d wanted a dandelion, seeds blowing away in the wind, with the words “let it go” woven in there somehow. It was going to go right on my forearm so I could see it every day. After I designed it and showed to a friend he said, “really?”   “What?” I asked him, perplexed at the snide look on his face.   “From Frozen?” he asked.   “No,” I said, “from a desire to let things go.”   “Well everyone’s going to think it’s from Frozen.” He replied, and because he had 4 kids and had seen the movie countless times, I assumed his theory was correct, and thanked him for helping me dodge that bleak future of implied Disney fanaticism. Ok, to be honest, I hadn’t thanked him right away, in fact I was probably more pissed at my ruined idea than grateful at that moment, but I’m thankful now and that’s what counts!   Sometime later I heard an interview with a girl whose entire body was tattooed and she said something to the effect of, “skin is temporary… life is temporary.” And that made me rethink my control freakism when it came to getting my next tattoo.   I wrote “get a tattoo, nothing’s permanent,” in my bullet journal. I originally slated this intention into last June, but that was the same month I impulsively quit my day job, and future money was a bit unsure for such frivolous things as body art. I rescheduled my new tattoo for March, I figured that’d give me enough time to plan (obviously the control freakism hadn’t completely let up yet) and I thought it would be a great birthday present to give to myself.   A couple of months later, my boyfriend Nick, decided he had the best idea for my birthday gift, and told me he’d be getting me a gift certificate to whatever tattoo artist I wanted. It was meant to be.   The time snuck up on me, as it often does, and suddenly I had to decide what I was going to get. I’d already decided on the artist, he was the only tattoo artist I could find in the entire state that did watercolor tattoos and it just so happened that his tattoo shop was an introvert’s dream. He only takes one customer at a time and you basically rent out his whole shop for your appointment.   Despite my usual tendency to be skeptical, the idea that I might be a starseed from Orion had stayed with me. So, quite impulsively, I decided on a new tattoo. I wanted the butterfly constellation AKA Orion, and I decided to replace his sword with a bee and turned his shield into a flower. I sent the artist a few reference photos, the date, and my deposit, sat back and sighed. The process of letting go had begun.   It wasn’t until the day before my appointment that I got to see what he’d designed, and before he drew it, I was legit starting to get cold feet. But once I opened the file I was stoked. It was perfect.   I still had a bit more letting go to do though, because the watercolor background was going to be completely improvised, and I had no idea what it would look like. All I chose were the colors. As the girl who swore she’d never get a color tattoo, I was nervous to say the least.   To be honest, when I first looked into the mirror, with my skin all inflamed and irritated the color was super bold, much bolder than I would have preferred. I wasn’t impressed and I started to regret my decision to get color added. It was better in black ink only, I thought. But as it healed, the color started to fade and I could see the variations in tone show up much better. And now, I’m kind of in love with it.   So, in the end this tattoo ended up being about, not only my connection to the stars, but also my newfound ability to let it all go, (take that Frozen!) and I’m honored to be the temporary canvas of Jacqsun Jones’ art.   [Conclusion:]   If you live in or near Dutchess County NY and are interested in getting tatted by Jacqsun, check out dermapunct.com. It’s not your typical tattoo environment and I definitely recommend it for anyone who wants a uniquely private experience. Not to mention the music rocks and this guy borders on OCD with how clean everything is.   I hesitated A LOT on whether or not to share this story. As I record this, only 2 people know the whole story of what this art means to me. The fear is powerful. My ego so wants you to take me seriously. I’ve told myself in the past to step into fear, as I know that the most wonderful kinds of things often manifest within this realm of uncertainty. But uncertainty is too scary, Bek, I told myself. Even after I spent all this time writing, I was 90% sure I didn’t have the vagina to share this story. But the urge remained.   So I quite literally asked the Universe for a sign. I asked to be guided on whether or not I should risk my reputation as a sane human being in order to have a podcast episode. And today (or the day I wrote the script for this episode), I shit you not, I met a little boy named Orion, and his dad told me he was named after the constellation. I had my answer. Suck it up and be brave, Bek.   So that’s why I’m being so vulnerable today. That’s why I’ve also decided against fictionalizing this story, or crediting it with a fake name. Nope. This is really what I believe, these things really happened, as strange as it all may sound.   If you’re listening to this story, and feel any kind of connection to it, I’d like to invite you to reach out to me and tell me all about it. Who knows, maybe we knew each other from another star.

  [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink4 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:     Artist: Danielle Krysa Title of Art: untitled Artist’s Website: http://www.krysa.com/danielle/ Instagram: @daniellekrysaart Danielle’s Podcast: The Jealous Curator   The first episode of Art Ink to hear the story of how The Jealous Curator podcast helped me solve a problem with this show   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs       Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Intro:]   Welcome back everyone! I’m thrilled you’re here to listen because I have a really fun story for you today.   Today’s featured artist is Danielle Krysa, and if you listened to the very first episode of this podcast, you’d know that her podcast, The Jealous Curator, had a hand in helping me figure out a problem I was having with this podcast and so I figured I just had to include some of her work in this podcast because, I mean, karma, right? She did me a favor, even though maybe not intentionally, so I figured I should pay her back somehow.   I found this piece on her Instagram and… let me just give you a little description to start us off:   [Art Description:]   This is a minimalistic mixed media piece with what looks like watercolor and acrylic paints with a splash of collage. A sailboat cutout is resting atop a cloud of aquamarine blue paint on the bottom right of the image. Pink and metallic bronze paints hover above and to the left of the sailing ship, resembling a distant sunset.   On Instagram, Danielle captioned her art: “some guys promised ‘sailing off into the sunset,’ but cap’n carl f’n delivered.” And so both the art and the caption had a part in creating the following story which features the cap’n carl I imagined.   [Story:]   I was NOT dreaming. I’d already done all the tests: pinched myself, read the same sign twice without scrambling the words or letters, I’d even closed my eyes, spun around, and opened them again to see the same scene.   I looked over the edge of the bow. The ship was floating on a shimmery, blue cloud of water so shallow it was translucent. I was on a magical journey, about to leave everything I’ve ever known.   Cap’n Carl had a skullet, you know, the balding man’s version of a mullet, and black holes where teeth used to be. The top of his head was like a dandelion, when the breeze would pick up, and the sails caught the wind, so too would large petals of peeling skin. They’d flutter and flap in the wind and, eventually release into the sky. I wondered if I might have a wish or two come true if blew on his head and managed to unhinge all the dead skin in one breath.   According to Cap’n Carl, though, my wishes were about to come true anyway. I was going to a place where time was infinite and money non-existent. It was still hard to believe, though, just as it would have been hard for anyone else to believe I’d be on a sailboat that soared through the sky… yet here I was, living that dream; passing clouds, chasing the sun’s bronze rays as it painted the clouds in our path.   Forever was a scary premise for most people, but not for me, there were too many stories inside me that still had to come out. And if I didn’t choose forever, I’d be choosing death. I’d be choosing to let my stories die with me. With the cancer that was cooking inside me, doctors estimated that in six months I’d be done.   According to Cap’n Carl, there was still time to change my mind. We had until sunset before there was no going back; all we had to do was walk the plank, metaphorically and literally speaking, and we’d instantly regress into our old lives.   We’d set sail with about a dozen other passengers. Most of them were also terminally ill, death-fearing people like me. But apparently, infinity was much scarier to them than death, because there was only one woman left aside from me. She was peering over the edge, her gaze switching between the setting sun and the sparkling sea below.   I looked back at Cap’n Carl, his smile was eager, but bordering on maniacal.   A splash sounded and I followed the Cap’n’s gaze to where the last passenger had once stood. I knew she was already gone by the time I’d turned my head. I’d watched many of the others jump ship before her, and once their bodies were fully enveloped in the shimmering plasma, they’d simply vanished from sight, leaving nothing but sparkling splashes erupting into the air like fireworks, fizzling out before they fell back into the ethereal substance below.   “Go on,” he called, “you know you want to follow them. Go back home to mortality.” He looked sad.   “Do so many people usually jump ship?” I asked, nervously glancing at the sun’s dwindling light.   “All but you, so far, dearie,” he said.   “No one’s stayed on for the entire journey?” I asked.   “Not since I’ve been Captain.” He said.   “How long is that?” I asked.   “Oh, nearly a century…” he said, “I make the journey every year, hoping to find a soul brave enough to face eternity.”   The sun was nearly gone, just a soft, dark orange glow, rapidly descending into darkness, the captain quickly becoming a silhouette against the twilight sky.   “What do you get out of this?” I asked, and all I could see of his frightening smile were the few teeth left in his mouth, glimmering in the moonlight as my eyes adjusted to the dark.   “I get to die,” he whispered… “I finally get to die.”   And just like that he was gone. No splash. Just a million, billion tiny particles scattered by the wind. Gone.   The ship sailed on through the night… I wondered what would happen if I tried to jump now, tried to change my mind. I figured it was too late.   I thought of how the sunset was always the perfect ending of every story, but for me, it was just the beginning of forever.   [Conclusion:]   So that is it for today. As you could hear, Danielle’s art took me to a literal place, or I guess a figurative place, haha. But the thing is, her art although so simple and minimalistic, I mean, take a look at this in the cover art of your podcast player app. There are just a few brushstrokes, it’s so simple but it transported me to another place in my imagination and this is the story that came out.   Remember to check out Danielle’s art on her Instagram @daniellekrysaart to see more of her awesome art.

    [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink3 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Kathleen Clemons Title of Art: Still Dancing Artist’s Website: http://kathleenclemonsphotography.com/ Instagram: @kathleenclemons   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs      Art Ink Podcast Transcript:     [Intro:]   What’s up everyone?! Welcome back to another episode of Art Ink! I’m thrilled to introduce to you today, one of my favorite fine art photographers, Kathleen Clemons. I’ve been a fan of Kathleen’s beautiful work since I had the opportunity to meet her at the Macro Photo Conference a few years ago.   The best way I can describe her work is to have you imagine what it would look like if Georgia O’Keefe’s florals and Monet’s soft texturized paintings had an art baby. Of course that doesn’t even touch on just how gorgeous Kathleen’s art really is. The word that comes to mind when I see her work is sensual.   Of course, that’s just my take on it. But you can can decide for yourself by looking at the cover art for this podcast episode… when you have time, of course, please don’t fiddle with you’re phone if you’re driving my dear. As usual I will start off by trying to capture the beauty of today’s featured piece in a brief description, before we dive into the story it sparked inside of me.     [Art Description:]   A red dying tulip diagonally poised against a pale pink background with abstract white brush strokes here and there. The pale green style and stigma stand tall in the center of the flower, wearing drooping petals like a modern dancer’s skirt. They are windswept, as if she were leaping across the photo.   When I first saw this flower, I immediately saw a dancer… but it’s the title of the photo, “Still Dancing,” that made me ask the question, why is she still dancing? This fictional story is the answer to that question.     [Story:]   If you only considered her face, the old woman looked peacefully confident. It was the thin, blue nightgown and even thinner, red-tinged hair, pointing in all different directions, that gave her sanity a question mark.   Her expression was intent as she scanned the bar and then, suddenly, her eyes widened in recognition, briefly, before they thinned to squinty slits, balancing her broadening smile.   She walked to the bar and hooked one of her thin, fragile arms onto Tom’s elbow. “Ricky,” she said, “ask them to play our song.”   “Alright, Mrs. McGillicuddy,” Tom said as he patted the top of her hand with his free one, “Tina,” he said directing his attention to me, “can you play Only You by The Platters please?”   I searched the music library, as Tom led the confused old woman to the middle of the floor. Surprisingly it popped up. I hit play.   Only after the music had started and the odd couple was gently swaying on the dance floor, did I dare to whisper to one of the other regulars. “Who is that? And why did she call him Ricky?”   “That’d be Mrs. McGillicuddy,” Billy answered, “and you’re going to want to call that number next to the phone.” He pushed his Bud Light into the air, in the general direction of the wall-mounted phone.   I turned around to find a Post-It note scrawled with the name Moira. I’d noticed the number before, but in the month that I’d been here, I’d simply assumed it was some regular’s unfortunate wife. Guess not.   I picked up the phone and started dialing.   “That’s her daughter,” Billy clarified, “just let her know her mom made her way over here.   I didn’t have to bother, though. She answered before the first ring had fully rung. “My mother’s there?” Moira rushed out.   “Yes.”   “I’ll be right there.”   I hung up the phone, and turned back to the bar.   “I suggest you put that song on repeat until Moira gets here.” Billy said, “It’s best to let her break the spell.”   I did as he said.   “Alzheimer’s.” he said, as if the period to his sentence.   Nobody spoke as the song ended and then began again. Mrs. McGillicuddy pulled away from Tom in the brief silence; peering up at him a bit perplexed, but as soon as the first notes filled the air once again, her face relaxed. She was back inside her comfortable dream.   Before the second instance of the song was halfway over, a middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway. She was a younger, sadder version of her mother, and her clothing was equally unsuited for the bar scene. She wore pink flannel pajama pants and a black, baggie, v-neck tee, but unlike her mother, at least she had shoes on.   Moira sighed, hugged herself with her arms, and leaned her head against the doorframe as she watched her mother dance.   Despite losing her husband, despite losing her mind… Mrs. McGillicuddy was still dancing. We let her dance.     [Conclusion:]   So that was the story that eventually came from Kathleen Clemons’ photograph of a wilting tulip. I say eventually because this wasn’t a case of inspiration at first sight, although I think many of us expect that kind of light bulb moment in order to dub ourselves inspired. But no, this inspiration was like racing as a tortoise, there was a finish line somewhere up ahead, but I had no idea how I was going to get there or when. I was struck by the beauty of the dancing tulip, and I knew I had to have in on this show, but it took me a long time to figure out why she was still dancing. Which, now, as I say this aloud, seems silly… because who really needs a reason to dance? Here’s to aging gracefully and dancing through life at every opportunity along the way.   My gratitude goes out to Kathleen Clemons for allowing me to share her art with you today, and I do recommend you follow her work on Instagram @kathleenclemons (that’s Kathleen with a K and all one word – but of course you can just click into the shownotes to get the link if you need it). Thank you Kathleen, without heartfelt artists like you, this show could never exist!   That’s all for now my friends. Until next time, keep on dancing!

  [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink2 to check it out.   Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]     Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Susan Proctor Hume Title of Art: Untitled Abstract Eye Artist’s Website: https://susanproctorhume.com/ Instagram: @susan_proctor_humeartist   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs     Art Ink Podcast Transcript:     [Intro:]   Susan Proctor Hume’s abstract eye was insta-inspiration for today’s episode! Not just because I discovered this piece on Instagram, but also because the story that sprang from it came almost instantly. Listen in to hear a short sci-fi story on the verge of dystopia I called tie-dyed eyes.     [Art Description:]   An abstract gray eye with a black pupil is decorated with tie-dye style splatters of pink, red, orange, and yellow. It’s a monotype print on cotton paper.     [Story:]   “I’m not angry,” she said, but her bright pink and yellow eyes were betraying her. Red exploded in the whites of her eyes like the spray from tiny gunshots, it was if I were spraying her with bullets as I spoke.   No one upgraded with TD eyes was capable of lying. If you could successfully lie after the upgrade, you were either criminally insane or a monk, and Sara was neither.   The red had completely stained the whites, had begun to envelop the pink, and was bleeding into the yellow, spreading out until the area around her pupils was totally orange; glowing like embers. Her eyes burned into mine. This wasn’t how I wanted to remember her.   I tried to hold onto the picture of Sara before, as she had glanced up at me just a few moments ago. She was holding an open book in one hand, and her other was wrapped around a full cup of steaming hot chocolate. As I had entered the café, her eyes left the pages and her face tilted toward me.   Those eyes were the ones I wanted to remember: all pink with love and yellow with joy, not the firey orbs that were burning holes into me now.   “Sure you are…” I said, “I can see it– ”   “In my eyes?!” She glared at me hard, and there was no pink left… no love; just red anger and black fear. “Well at least I have the courage to live in my truth.”   I said nothing.   I couldn’t say anything that hadn’t been said before. The development of TD eyes had come from a place of love, but that didn’t mean that love was still the main priority. Billie Bobs, the technology’s creator had a vision to reconnect the millennial generation to each other, it was meant to undo the damage that social media and smart phones had done to the development of common social skills.   The first group of kids to get injected with the mood bots got a free college education in exchange for their participation in the research. The trend caught on. The kids thought it was cool. Teachers loved the polygraph like qualities built into their student’s eyes with the upgrade and it wasn’t long before the government caught on to the potential for control.   Billie Bobs was loving, but he was naïve too, and he was easily bought out.   The propaganda was so widespread. The incentive for the poverty stricken to get an education they could never afford was so rose-colored that it reawakened the “American Dream.”   Within four years, as the college graduates sporting TD eyes hit the workforce, employers began to favor these applicants over their coworkers. It wasn’t long after that when companies everywhere were paying to get their employees upgraded.   Now, you can’t get a job without them, and pretty soon you won’t be able to keep your citizenship without the truth telling eyes… so I was forfeiting mine. No one could convince me that injecting tiny robots that lived in my eyes and gave away all my secrets was about anything other than control. Unfortunately most of the country was blind to that fact, and even more unfortunately, Sara was among them.   “It must be nice to know everything about me, it must be nice to keep all your selfish secrets all to yourself!” She started sobbing, burying her face in her hands. Big teardrops pooled on the black surface of the table and soaked into the pages of her closed book, swelling one corner.   “Please…” I said, “come with me, we can – “   “We’ve had this conversation, I’m not leaving. I can’t just wander around the world with you, no plan, banned from ever coming back, from ever seeing our friends and family again.” Her purpling eyes were wide, pleading, darting back and forth, searching for any answer they could find in my own. That the blue sadness had begun to blend into the red confirmed what I already knew: this was goodbye.   “I just don’t understand what’s so goddamned scary about honesty, Tyler…” she said with a sigh, “what are you so afraid of?”   It was a question she’d asked many times before, but my answer conflicted with her cultural programming and never satisfied her.   “I need my freedom.” I said. I was being honest. I was trying to prove that honesty could exist without force, but it was too little, too late as far as Sara was concerned.   Her violet eyes reddened a bit, she threw her hands up in the air, “and you’re telling me this now? You’re telling me this one hour before your appointment?! You let me believe we were going to be ok for so long… how could you?”   I wished I could see her sunny yellow eyes one more time before I left, but I was out of time. Once I’d missed my injection appointment, there’d be a warrant out for my arrest. I had to go.   As I got up, I leaned over the table, and kissed Sara’s forehead. She looked up at me. Her blue eyes were full to the brim with tears, and I turned away before she could blink them over the edge.

    [If your podcast app isn’t showing the featured art for this episode above visit rebekahnemethy.com/artink1 to check it out. Castbox and Podcast Addict are both apps I recommend that do show episode specific art.]   Links from the Show at a Glance:   Artist: Melissa Dinwiddie Title of Art: Stitch River Yes Artist’s Website: melissadinwiddie.com Instagram: @a_creative_life Get Melissa's book The Creative Sandbox Way (the 1st 50 pages are free, go download it now, what do you have to lose?)   Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs   Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   [Art Description:]   Melissa Dinwiddie’s mixed media painting, Stitch River Yes is one of three paintings that hang in my studio, and it’s my favorite of the three. It’s made of crackle paste, laid thickly upon a small canvas, painted with teal blue watercolor. One thick, deep, wobbly vertical line, resembling a river, was created by removing various bits of the crackle paste along the jagged edges that the medium creates as it dries. The river is painted darker, and it’s more brown than blue.   The word “yes,” created with an old fashioned typewriter, is cut out and pasted dozens of times, in a strip going down the right edge of the piece, with fewer words at the top of the line, and a thicker cluster of “yes”es towards the bottom. The words wrap around the painted edge of the canvas.   Abstract, cat-whisker-like stitching completes this work. Some of the stitches cross the river, as if holding it together. One tiny, type-written “yes” is pasted atop each stitch.   [Story:]   The wind was blowing through my hair. Birds were singing. The sun was shining, and caressing my skin with a blanket of warmth on that spring day.   I sat on the big rock in my front yard… I’d been planning an inspired day of writing since the day I first set eyes on the natural chair outside my dad’s new house.   At first I just took it all in, the warmth, the rustling songs of nature moving and waking up into spring. I looked out at the neighborhood, and the sky with passing clouds. I was feeling… happy… but I still wasn’t inspired.   I opened my pink binder full of loose leaf. I stared at the blank page.   Why wasn’t I inspired?   I wanted to write but there weren’t any words. There wasn’t anything interesting enough to say.   “Write what you know,” echoed in my head; the common advice I’d heard and read from all the experts everywhere. I didn’t know anything. I was only 13.   What I didn’t realize was that I knew enough… that the experience I was having that day was enough to put my pen down and just start writing.   It wasn’t until I started reading Melissa Dinwiddie’s work, many years later, that I started to realize where I was going wrong.   Number five of the ten guideposts in her book, The Creative Sandbox Way, is to, “Just start anywhere.”   Oh, I could’ve used that advice as a young writer… I shut my pink binder that day 20 years ago without writing a single word. I found it years later, this binder meant for my writing, and it was still totally blank, aside from some yellowing around the edges from all that waiting around.   “Just start anywhere.” I’m so grateful for these three words. In fact, just starting anywhere is how I started writing what you’re hearing right now.   I had Melissa’s painting and the urge to write about how it inspired me. But how? There’s so much! How could I begin to sort through the journey this piece has taken me on?   The river running through Stitch River Yes is like my fear: so deeply etched in my cultural programming, in my human instincts.   Fear: this safety precaution, this emergency brake that stops all except your fight or flight instincts and adrenaline.   Me: I want to start a podcast!   Fear: But what if you’re too busy to release an episode every single week? If you’re not as perfect as a NPR radio show, in quality as well as consistency, well then you’ll just suck, and no one will take you seriously.   Me: I want to tell stories.   Fear: Who cares about your stories? No one will listen. What could you possibly write that will matter?   Me: I want to write stories channeled through the experience of other artist’s work.   Fear: You are not qualified to write about art much less interpret it. You know nothing about art. You’re going to look stupid. People will find out how stupid you are when you interpret things wrong.   Me: You know what, Fear? You’re getting a bit ridiculous. How can an interpretation of my own experience of something be wrong? I think I’ll take the risk… because even if you’re right and all those things happen… I won’t be any worse off than I am right now.   No one can listen to a podcast that doesn’t exist. No one can care about a story that remains unwritten. No one can be an expert without first being a novice.   Fear? You still there?   …   Don’t worry, he’ll be back. His story doesn’t change. He cares about me, so I hear him out, but I can’t let him chase me away. At the same time, I can’t be afraid to face the possibility that he might be right, either. I have to say yes to the risks and move on, because when I really break it down… the worst case scenario rarely happens, and even when it does, I’m usually still alive after it’s all over, and I’ve likely learned something valuable from the experience as well.   I can’t make the fear go away... but maybe I can hold it together, not let it get any bigger, stitch it closed so I can say yes… so I can stay and fight. So it’s not so scary that I have to run from it. So I can flow with the fear, use the current as the force that drives me forward, instead of letting it flood over and drown my creativity.   It’s safer to stay on the banks of fear’s river, keeping the dark, dangerous rapids at bay. But if you want to go places… if you want to get there faster… well than the river of fear is much faster than the safe, slow hike you’ll take trying to avoid it.   Melissa’s painting is my reminder to fight. To say yes to the scary things that won’t stop haunting my thoughts.   I’m saying yes to being messy. I’m saying yes to creating work that might not be perfect. I’m saying yes to facing my fears. I’m saying yes to success AND failure, because one cannot exist without the other. And I believe, the point of life is to experience them both.   Besides, the idea of this podcast becoming the equivalent to my pink binder, with those pathetically blank and yellowed pages, is far scarier to me now than any kind of failure could ever be.   Because the simple act of doing something… anything, in this creative process is worth it.   Why? That’s something Melissa Dinwiddie can explain to you better than me. Her book, The Creative Sandbox Way, is an interactive workbook that I highly recommend for every person… not just quote on quote, creative people, but everyone. Because we. are. all. creative. But since you’re listening, I bet you’ll be thrilled to find out that a lot of the lessons Melissa teaches in her book can also be heard on The Creative Sandbox Way podcast. I will have links to both of these amazing things in the shownotes (which you can access directly from your podcasting app in the description of this episode.)   Now that, that’s settled… yay, I’m starting another podcast. Oh wait… I guess now I’ve officially started this podcast. Would you look at that?   What do I write? What’s the story? Where do I start?   “Just start… anywhere.” I have to remind myself of this every time I sit down to write. Every time.   And I guess this story, like our theme song kind of, but not really sings, is a good place to begin.   That’s it for today! A huge shout out to Melissa Dinwiddie for being a constant source of inspiration, courage, and self love. And, of course, a big thanks for allowing me to feature her work in this episode. Don’t forget to take a look at the image that inspired today’s story. It’s the cover image for this episode.   Find out more about Melissa at melissadinwiddie.com or follow her on Instagram @a_creative_life to see what magical creations she’s making right now.

    Links from the Show at a Glance:   Ashley Longshore's Artgasms Danielle Krysa's podcast The Jealous Curator Art Ink Submission Guidelines     Art Ink Podcast Transcript:   I’m a little embarrassed to say that this podcast has been in the works for well over a year… despite my enthusiasm for the big picture of this project, I kept getting stuck on all the details.   For instance, I spent hours brainstorming titles until I came up with the. perfect. name. I was going to call it Artgasms, with an equally clever subtitle: short, shriek-worthy stories inspired by art. I thought I was soooo brilliant… until I started Googling and discovered that this kick ass artist I follow, you’ve probably heard of her… Ashley Longshore, actually has a series of tiny paintings dubbed by the same name. I knew my subconscious had absorbed this title, and hid it away for future reference, and I was bummed to find out that I wasn’t quite as brilliant as I thought I was. The title search went on.   The next challenge that tripped me up was how I could possibly get other artists to come on the show in the very specific vision I had for them. I was dreaming of a collaborative, inclusive space to share unique perspectives from artists all over the world. I was envisioning a place for art lovers to discover new artists and connect to them through their stories.   The only thing I knew for sure was that this was NOT going to be another artist interview show, this was going to be a short story show and I needed artists willing to write and record their stories. The problem was, that would be a huge ask coming from a brand new podcast with no track record. Not to mention, writing and storytelling comes easy to me, but for a lot of people it’s a big drag to have to write. Some artists can barely tolerate having to name their art much less write about it.   Even the artists I know who are comfortable writing weren’t putting the kind of stories out that would fit the narrow vision I had for this podcast. I Googled the fuck out of this problem, with no solution in sight. The stories I wanted to tell just didn’t seem to exist.   I had plenty of my own stories and my own art to share, but I just couldn’t figure out how to feature other artists without putting them to work.   Then I was listening to a podcast called The Jealous Curator, and the host, Danielle, was talking about a bad experience she’d had in her last year of art school. When one of her paintings was being critiqued by other students one of them asked her what her painting meant, instead of giving an answer, Danielle had each of the 24 students go around the room and offer their own interpretations of her painting. When all of them had a chance to guess, they wanted to know who was right. And Danielle said that they were all right, and I quote, “because that’s the point, right?” she said, “It will evoke something different in every single person.”   Danielle got a C on that painting, and the low grade was because she didn’t have her own solid interpretation to share with the class. That didn’t make sense to me, and it didn’t make sense to Danielle either, she went onto say, and I quote again, “It’s much more interesting for a viewer to have a physical or emotional reaction to something, whether it’s what you intended or not.”   That’s when it dawned on me! I could share my experience of the art I discover. I could do all the work necessary to take listeners on a journey inspired by one piece of art. This was how I could help other artists by connecting listeners to their work through story.   Don’t get me wrong… I’d love it if some of you artists and writers out there would catch the storytelling bug and send in submissions, I’d love it even more if you’d share them in your own voice. That’s how I envision this show growing. That’s the big picture. That’s the daydream I’m having right now.   But, until we start sketching out that big picture, please keep in mind that the following stories are from my perspective, and my experience of each artist’s work will probably be very different from yours, and may also be in contrast with the artist’s original intentions. What can I say? Inspiration works differently for everyone.   That’s why you should also know that you can always access the art that inspired each episode right in the app you’re using to listen. In fact, I encourage it. If you use the Podcast Addict app, like I do, just tap the thumbnail image to see it full size, tap again on the full sized image to access the shownotes, and get links to each featured artist’s website and see more of their work.   So… I hope you enjoy my stories AND the art that inspired them. I also hope some of you artists and storytellers out there will soon be joining me, the world craves your voices, so write up and speak up.   Download the next few episodes to hear…   Welcome to Art Ink.     Are you an artist with a story to tell? We'd love to hear your story on the next episode of Art Ink. Check out our submission guidelines to find out how to make it happen.