Session 54: Toaster Oven – Featuring Annie Wentz, Epidemiologist

Toaster Oven

Join Brown University Department of Epidemiology doctoral student Annie Wentz as we talk about her crazy cat Karl, loneliness, chocolate cake, and creativity!

Annie is a doctoral student at Brown University in the Department of Epidemiology. She studies opioids, plays the ukulele, and has a crazy cat named Karl. Annie has been with Endless Beautiful since the beginning, when it was just workshops, and not necessarily a podcast that features guests every week. It’s high time that we have her on the show!


  • Karl and a Toaster Oven
  • Opening Balcony Martinique
  • Walking Around Free Play Arcade
  • Easy Rider Bike Wheels
  • Karl and a Keyboard
  • Cleaning off the Car
  • Beer Stew
  • Walking Outside Crunchy Snow

Annie’s Result

Listen to the show! There’s cake involved!

Lucas’s Result

The timer above the sink ticked with a smooth insistent rhythm. She loved the sound of it when it was going – hated it when it wasn’t. This was what life was like for Jessica. Always in anticipation for something, and once it was in motion, dreading the inevitable end and the empty spaces in between.

Trust was an issue for her. Not of people. Of breathing. Of being able to kiss sons and daughters. Of being angry at her husband for staying out too late, but loving him for eggs and toast in the morning. That was all gone now.

The timer ticked on. Jessica could perceive the tick becoming shorter. The spring unleashing. Giving up. Goddamn you. Don’t give it up.

She came to door with a delivery. Not Jessica. A white woman in a brown uniform.

“Just got a package that needs a signature.”

Breakfast had just been served. Jessica was sitting on the couch. Darius got the door. He grabbed the package. The woman smiled as Darius fiddled with the plastic stylus to sign his name. He had just learned to sign his name that year.

The delivery woman smiled, left, and Darius brought the package to the middle of the living room.

Charles looked at the label.

“It says it’s for the Wenaways,” he announced.

“Can I open it?” asked Darius.

Charles looked over at Jess on the couch. She nodded and smiled. Took a drink of her coffee.

“Go ahead.”

Chanty came down the carpeted stairs to join them. She was carrying her green and yellow turtle blanket.

Darius began peeling the tape of the box. He tore open the cardboard and pulled out a small yellow egg timer.

“What’s this momma?”

That’s an egg timer silly. I suppose they don’t use those anymore, with Iphones and everything else. Here. Let me see. Jess motioned for Darius to bring it over. He did sitting on the couch next to Jess and Chanty joining them.

Jess cranked the dial, and it began to tick. And that’s when something changed in her. Somewhere in her brain and down in her heart. She looked over at Darius jumping up and down excitedly and Chanty squeezing her blanket.

And the ticking. She could feel it in her heart, her breath her every step from that moment forward.  

Carolyn’s Result

Sometimes the beasts have gentler voices than you expect.
Has it ever helped me to expect the worst of them?
Have they ever hurt me so badly?
Even if the answer is yes, even if they were gentle,
familiar, ticking away their own business–
it doesn’t mean I didn’t hear what they were saying.

So there’s that.
Turning away–do you think
some carpenters anticipate the creaks
that will grow into their rocking chairs?
Do salt marshes feel their creeks?
The tidal influx and outflow–
I am sometimes that full and so drained.
I let the moon carry me,
hang on its tether like a hooked fish
sifting the bubbles of the salt surf in my gills.

I wind up.
A reel– a jack in the box–
a roll of flypaper–

I exfoliate–
am lost of foliation, dropped of leaves,
spun into a fine grain,
a thread of grass missed by the wheel
and sent downstream. I soak.
I dissolve. Sometimes I solve problems.

Sometimes I just let them go.

I arrange beads on the strings
of an outdoor piano–abandoned as a
rotten pop-up camper in the more abandoned tree farm.
This makes it go even more out of tune.

I vow to treat myself
with at least as much reverence and wariness
as a kid treats an excessively elderly
aunt. Someone a little too strange
to take too seriously, but you’ll hear her out.

Don’t snap. Blink. Let your hands go,
even if they were–especially if they were–
the problem. Put them down a while.
Speak. At least a little. When you can.

-CD 1.6.18

Session 53: Sewing Machine – Featuring Nick Revel of PUBLIQuartet

Sewing Machine

We test out the EB Method and the Sewing Machine session with amazing violist and improvisation guru Nick Revel in this episode of the podcast. Tune in to listen to Nick’s incredible piece and the fascinating discussion that surrounds it!

Nick Revel’s Result
Nick Revel

Nick Revel is the founding violist of PUBLIQuartet, which was string quartet in residence for the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s “MetLiveArts” 2016/17 season. PUBLIQuartet has been presented by the Late Show with Stephen Colbert, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Carnegie Hall, Joyce Theater, National Sawdust, Dizzy’s Coca Cola Club, and the Newport Jazz Festival.

He’s collaborated with Benjamin Millepied and the LA Dance Project, Björk, Paquito D’Rivera, Billy Childs, JACK Quartet, Alarm Will Sound, the International Contemporary Ensemble (ICE), Jessie Montgomery, and tuba legend Bob Stewart.

Nick’s 2017 composition “In DayDream” for viola and guitar premiered in Carnegie Hall on April 10, 2017. His new album “Letters to My Future Self” of all original compositions, improv, and sound designs for viola comes out in 2018.

Nick co-created the New York String Studio, located in Sunnyside, Queens with his wife Nora Krohn where they teach students high quality instrumental technique and foster a deeper understanding of mind and body, discipline, problem-solving, organization, time management, and self-expression.


  • Snowball Fight
  • Pulling in the Nets
  • Creaky Radiator
  • Dinner Triangle
  • Wrapping Gifts
  • Singer Sewing Machine
  • Recyclables
  • Mangrove Dock

Nick’s Result

Listen to the episode! It’s amazing!

Lucas’s Result

Laughing is the same as the sun shining and bullfrogs singing. That’s what momma says. The tells me that every time we end up down by the river and she’s washing the bottoms of my feet.

I’m ticklish.

My sister doesn’t like having her feet washed by momma. She likes to keep them in the mud until it looks likes she’s wearing two big slopping bricks on the ends of her legs.

She’s gross.

And momma always makes her wash her feet before she comes in the house anyway. I tell Tally that it’s a waste of time.

There are some people near the pond today. They’re watching for the herons and crocodiles. The herons are here, and so are the crocodiles, but they don’t know that.

I feel pretty good. I did good in school, and momma let Tally and me have some popcorn. She said that we better not tell Uncle Ray or he’ll eat it all on us. Then she told us that Uncle Ray was right around the corner, and we shoved it into our mouths and down our shorts and shirts.

It wasn’t Uncle Ray. It was a buffalo. Tally felt bad after watching the buffalo eat muddy grass after a while. I felt bad too. So we gave it the rest of our popcorn.

We had to hide from the buffalo after that because it wanted to follow us home.

Hear that? That’s the triangle that they ring in the square! That’s when the men in the jump suits come falling from the sky like rain. They bring food sometimes. But they also bring strange things. Shiny ribbons, scissors, and screens.

Momma got real scared when she found out that I had a pair of jump suit man scissors one time. She made me give it back, at least try to give it back. The jump suit man told me to take it and not tell my momma.

I buried it in the side yard next to the big orange rock. Momma doesn’t know about it, but Tally does. She won’t tell on me though, because she’s got a patch from one of the jump suit men hidden under her mattress.

We watch as the jump suit men come down in a flash. They fall like rocks from the sky, and white light flares up right before they hit the ground. There’s a crack like lightning too. I used to be real scared when they came in.

I don’t cry anymore.

They spread out in the village. They fan out in the village and start looking for something. I’m not sure what they’re looking for. Red scan lights pass over our house, and they call out. They push through the door. My momma is crying. They go out the back. To the rock. To the scissors.

“You better not tell your momma,” says the jump suit man.

Carolyn’s Result

I have never unlearned this habit—
the sticking in of the silent e’s—
Know that when I am pausing
a silent e is the shape my mouth makes,
somewhere inbetween a snow angel
and the layer of ice frozen underneath.

This is the truce I make with my thoughts—
a wave breaking, the caesura,
the heartbeat cadence, the long dash
and the contemplative pause.
Do not react too quickly to me.
Look at me like you would the fish
through the hole drilled in the icy lake.
Have I got any unusual scales,
am I a woven xylophone?
Will you let me go or eat me?

I turn over like an apple pastry,
or like a cement mixer driving too slow
on the country lane in front of you.
Would you rather I be the dough
inside my sister’s kitchen mixer
or pouring the neighbor’s new foundation?
Is that too bizarre a question?
Is it sweet like lead paint,
does it lead too much?

Would you follow me like a sunflower
follows the sun, or how a sunflower seed
is led to a new pasture by a sparrow,
having eaten it, extracted it, given it away?
Is this what I am doing
with all those silences?
Packaging the stuttered electricity of a
swallowed thought with a paper peacemaking?
With a curled red ribbon?

When they did pour the concrete,
my sister and I dipped our initials into it.
My brother too. Has he made his way
into this poem yet? He is in many
of my silences—sewn into me
the way dreams are stitched.

Have I told you that in most of
my childhood nightmares, the monsters
were chasing him? Not me.
I could only look. Then wake.
Revise. Pretend. Maybe say. Maybe not.

I have a gift for sleeping.
The sandman drives that cement mixer
from earlier. The sand is heavy in
the water slurry. The water is a metaphor
for blood. The lye is a metaphor for
the dreams. The dreams are not lies.
The lyre is the instrument of
silent e’s – all string instruments.

It is the space inbetween that matters, right?
The part that isn’t matter.
There’s that Seuss quote –
“those that matter don’t mind”
but the mind is most affected by
the parts that aren’t matter.
I think that matters.

-CD EB053 12.27.17

Thank You 2017!

Thank You 2017!

Thank you to all of our wonderful guests and listeners in 2017! Please help support us by purchasing the high quality sessions on our website,! Also, don’t forget to enter the free contest that we have going with before January 11, 2018!

Session 52: Snow – Featuring R.S. Benedict, Fantasy and Science Fiction Writer


Bundle up and join EB as we chat with the amazing fantasy and science fiction writer R.S. Benedict about her stories, balancing work with creativity, and avoiding misplaced takeout!


  • Hotel Room Fan in Martinique
  • Walking in the Snow (West Greenwich, RI)
  • Rain Hitting Microphone
  • Playing Pinball
  • Flotsam
  • Birds and Leafblower
  • Kids Playing in Martinique

R.S. Benedict’s Result

Listen to the episode!

Lucas’s Result

He pulled the old Ford F-150 to the side of the reservoir embankment. Van pulled on some cracked leather gloves before opening the door into the cold October air. It was almost cranberry harvest season, and it was time for them to fill the beds with water so the vines could be beaten, and the berries could be sucked out and trucked to the local juicing plants.

Van walked over to the long aluminum tube of the water pump. He knew he’d probably have to jump the tractor. The battery had failed the previous week, and had forgotten to change it.

Van watched two swans fly over his head silently and land in the reservoir a few hundred feet away. It was warm this year, and the two adults had a juvenile with them the last time Van had seen them. He wondered what had happened.

Van grabbed the long metal tube attached to an even longer rubber hose that used to suck water up and divert it to other parts of the marsh. It stunk of fallen detritus and of dirt. He carried it over to the edge, and threw it down into the dark water.

The water bubbled and as the metal tube sank down through the underwater grass. He thought of sitting at the local tavern over the weekend. The bar was filled with rough men talking about crop yields, drinking cheap beer, and talking about the upcoming deer season this time of year.

They also had a fish tank with a lone beta male. Van liked to sit and quietly drink his water beer and watch the beta wrap poke around its underwater scene of sunken treasure. A small pump pushed bubbles up and opened the lid of a treasure chest. He would drink and watch and when he thought he couldn’t stand this life that he had built for himself anymore and that he wanted to move to the mountains in Montana or an island paradise and that he drank too much and that his life was going nowhere, he went home. To start it over again.

Because, well, who was going to change the goddamn battery in the tractor and start the pumps? Van didn’t feel like he could control much in his life, but at least he could control that.

Carolyn’s Result

The door closes. Two moths gather
under the ceiling fan – wondering
who is this rapid four winger
with the two bright eyespots –
they ring it like fairies, blurring themselves
and their feathered ears –
shouldn’t it be too much for them?
The heat from the smoking oven,
the gap in the window – the winter coming on.

I have begun acting out my favorite Frost poem –
surrounded by birch stems too small to climb on
but young and brash enough to slap me across the face
(“one eye is weeping from a twig’s having lashed across it open”)
and laugh itself free of snow for testing its supple audacity
to grow in a gravel pit
and have moths lay their eggs on you –
no soil to stand in but an icy puddle to catch your roots.

On the sledding hill I discovered my second favorite sound –
fresh ice sliding downslope,
tinkling a hundred small bells
until the swamp pond swallowed them up –
icicles for witch’s crowns.
Blueberry and ilex, berries shriveled and plump
raisined jewels for chickadees to perch behind.

What to do with the banished wild –
its freakishness – its sex appeal
its desperation and indifference –
isn’t this why we banish princes,
why fairy tales are full of transformation
to make you fall in love.

How many lines have I gotten lost in?
How many twigs tricked me to my knees,
knocked off my hat and glasses
and never asked for forgiveness?
I don’t ask them for it.

On lucky days I say hello to the
rabbit taken up residence in the hole below the maple,
here rather than the junk pile,
its toppled shed – its rusted nails.
On luckier days I greet the hawk.
The city is getting fuller of them.
Do they mind the leafblowers –
maybe not if it means more ground to see
and fewer places for rabbits and mice to hide in.

It’s quite a bit different here now.
I used to pretend my memories were photographic –
but I edit them constantly.

CD 12.11.17

Session 51: Arcade – Featuring Bill Protzmann of Music Care


Drop a quarter in and join music and behavioral health expert Bill Protzmann and EB as we explore sound, mental health, and creativity!

Bill Protzmann

Bill Protzmann is a pianist, writer, and public speaker who uses the power of music in behavioral health. He has published 2 CDs of original music in addition to his work combining music and health. His work in the field of music and health brings him into contact with people who are or have been homeless, abused substances, are combat-injured, Alzheimer’s patients, stressed-out business people, parents, or caregivers. He has been recognized by the National Council for Behavioral Health and is the Director of Music Care Inc, and a director at the nonprofit Guitars for Vets.


  • Electric Accordion
  • Approaching River
  • Tron
  • Swan Point Cemetery on a Sunday
  • Making Breakfast
  • Skeeball
  • Music on the Beach

Bill’s Result

You’ll have to listen to the episode!

Lucas’s Result

He walked out into the open park. The cracked asphalt was powder grey, electric cockatoos let out a phased reverb call. The man with the accordion began to play, and the tourists began to awkwardly dance.

Miko smiled. It had been too hot all summer. He missed the river and flinging cold moss on his cousin’s back. She would laugh and duck under the cold, clear water and fling snails at him.

The accordion man’s small electric amp rang out some distorted feedback before he pushed the pedal. Greetings travelers. Miko wasn’t among them. His place was on the back side of a hill, under the shade of a tall fern tree.

The travelers awkwardly hobbled their way off the boat. Filing out three at a time. Spheres buzzing around their heads and men in blue lab coats prodding them with silvery sticks.

These creatures were once human, as far as Miko could tell. He could see the curve of a lip, perhaps a half-smile or grimace by the accordion player. He noticed a quiet breath of the salted ocean air from another.

It reminded Miko of watching a fox chase a mouse once. He had been in a tree for at least an hour looking at postcards that his auntie had brought back from the shop. The fox and mouse had twirled around the pale grey trunks and under the thick green brush for what seemed to be an hour, until finally they, stood, face to face, towering red fox, and tiny brown mouse.

Miko could see the twitch of whiskers and nose from his spot in the tree, until finally a hawk cried out and they dashed in their separate directions.

The accordion man began playing a synthesized tune and the far off travelers shuffled forward off the dock in their corrugated silver suits. Some got into horse carriages and some bought watermelon. The orb lit and flashed red and blue and they bounced overhead.

Miko wiped his brow and headed back into the city.

It was time for him to return to the river.

Carolyn’s Result

The room goes out like an old TV screen – zoop!
The Dr tells me the numbers are normal –
make a fist – and half an hour later
I am not recognizing the man beside me –
only his jacket, his electricity, and in his hand
I can recognize his pulse, his picture,
and I let him walk me out of the room,
into the car, a sea of December sleep
and butternut soup

Esses are harder now
that I keep my wisdom teeth locked in an air sealed bag –
I could send them off like a message in a bottle
for a geneticist or an anthropologist –
here is all you can glean from me –
four molars I couldn’t kept but didn’t.

Wisdom came sideways for me –
plunged its way fleshy into gums
and all their signaling –
whether pain or warning
prize or pretense,
piled up and now it’s all I’ll get from it.

Is it a good metaphor?
A naming convention
a pretention or predisposition
for what these parts gave me –
trading symbolism for function.
Maybe its supposition, unnecessary association.

Let me unzip this then.
If I pretend my bodily wisdom
did reside in these teeth,
I can blame them for the nightmares.
How many realms have I lost them in?
I’m glad to control them.
I can do as I like.
I could make a pair of earrings.
Just one. Two of the teeth were broken in the jaw.
Two intact. Nervy. Hard. Slick.

I’ve already written a poem about a cow tooth
I plucked it from a clouded hillside.
I am not wise enough now
to mind repeating myself.
I like when people tell me the same old stories.
It means they like me enough
that they focus on the telling
and not on how I look listening.

Let me dive low and deep into those –
let me synchronize my breath
with the beat of sunlight along the moving waters.
I will dance to the next door music –
taste the bass like laughing gas –

CD 12.4.17

Session 50: Water Wheel – Featuring Jake Starkey from Battle Cry Revival

Water Wheel

Keep your creativity flowing with Endless Beautiful and designer Jake Starkey from Battle Cry Revival!

Jake Starkey Photo

Jake Starkey and his wife own the branding and design company Battle Cry Revival and live in the Houston Texas suburb of Alvin.  He is also the host of the Break the Box Podcast and is a graphic designer and an award-winning filmmaker.


  • French Gameshows
  • Shelter Walk Start
  • Factory in Woonsocket
  • Fishermen and Ice Cream
  • Woonsocket Library
  • Morning Birds
  • Uncorking and Pouring Wine
  • Water Wheel

Jake’s Result

Jake Starkey Result

Lucas’s Result

The nighttime television rang loudly across the moonlight landscape of Jim’s quiet suburb. He loved listening to the crickets and Ms. Willaker’s emphysemic laugh and shouts as she watched her evening gameshows.

There was an excited “No, No, No!” from across the street. Jim could see through the basement window of the two story. Three teens playing Xbox stooding up and shouted at the television. They were playing football, and it looked like their team had just lost. Jim took a sip from his tepid coffee, and the boys hit start to play again.

A car drove down Jim’s quiet nighttime street. He didn’t recognize the vehicle. It looked old. Big Oldsmobile. The muffled radio noise that was inside flashed to life as the window cracked. A young woman popped her head out.

“Excuse me.”

“Yeah,” said Jim from his beach recliner.

“Excuse meeee!” She hadn’t heard him.

“Yeah!” The radio from inside the car lowered.

“Sorry, I was just driving down Peach, and I saw a dog over there. Looks like it might have broken its leg. You don’t have a dog do you?”

“What kind of dog? Big, small?”

“A medium one. Looks like it might have a hurt tail or something? Is it yours?”

Jim didn’t have a dog.

“No I don’t think so. Wasn’t a Dalmatian was it?”



“I don’t think so. It had pretty short hair.” She leaned out the window a little further and stared at him. “Will you go with me or follow me with your car or something? It’s just down on Peach.”

Jim reached down and took another sip of his coffee. “Okay. Let’s check it out.”


They get to the scene of the dog.

Sure enough, there is a chocolate lab whining by the edge of sidewalk. Jim was glad to get out of the car with Rene. The cracked leather and windshield creeped him out. Jim slowly approached the dog with his hands extended. He could see it’s paw was caught along the concrete.

It let out a high-pitched whine when they drew near. Rene grabbed a bottle of water from behind her seat.

“Should we put this on?”

“Put it on?”

“Yeah it’s paw.”

The dog whined again in heartbreaking agony.


Carolyn’s Result

Digital crickets – and whose voices over these?
I don’t know, but they seem happy –
a tropical fern below a florescent bulb –
it isn’t the spotlight you expect,
but let’s see what blooms under neon glow –
the place is open, fourteen hundred angels
dancing on the tip of the electric plug,
its three pins – two to conduct and one to ground –

those numbers don’t divide –
that means some fractional angel is
spreading out her fractal,
her harp a cricket leg – her cloud a crowd
of beachgoers, ball players, revelers –

Can there be serenity anywhere?
My father tells me a parable
about a monk, Tibetan, imprisoned,
and his greatest sin a day of not forgiving –

He tells me this because he has just
taken a course on conducting divining rods,
the flow of angelic advisors
unfurling his energy along an uncurled
coat hanger – his love like the call of a conch shell,
guttural, feeling its way over the water.

Look how much blood there is within us,
and how much in the schools of fish
down there in the water he practices finding –
summoning the life force –

Maybe it is the fish turning the rods –
they’ve an electric organ detecting
how close is each other deep-going-denizen,
it’s built into their bodies

And birds! (Turtles too.) They have these internal magnets,
the molecule magnetite concentrated in their brains,
aligning to the magnetic field, the solar drift,
navigating pole to pole,
think of geese, of roseate terns, of the red knot,
the great pelagic sea turtles going and going
along the currents of their minds –

I have this power too –
I am all too keen to forget it.
I uncork it. I reach across the table
and touch your hand
because the hidden conductors
are not screaming – no – they are so powerful
they need only speak to me plainly.

I am as serene as the heat
leaving the glass of boiled water,
I warm the room – I am not left cold by it.
Since my time among the Buddhists
I have taken to drinking my water warm –
good for the gut.

Guru Rinpoche speaks of the eagle and its shadow –
and I begin to understand.

CD 11.30.17

Session 49: Mud – Featuring Brazilian Jiu Jitsu Practitioner and Painter Theo Howard


Play in the mud and find your true creative self with Brazilian Jiu Jitsu practitioner and painter, Theo Howard. Make sure you check out our website to see what he came up with! You can find more of Theo’s work at

Theo Howard
Theo Howard is an artist who makes jiu jitsu artwork. He does commissions and illustrations of people doing doing jiu jitsu. He sells his artwork through a website he built specifically for his jiu jitsu artwork: He has sold his jiu jitsu prints and commissioned original paintings across the United States, as well as in Europe.
Theo loves practicing Brazilian jiu jitsu, and being involved in that community.


  • Martinique Morning Beach
  • Inside Scoop on the Brisket Sandwich
  • Playing with Salt
  • Walking Through Noisy Campus
  • Forested Swirl
  • Martinique Walking in the Mud
  • Nuts and Bolts

Vexed Axis Track

Theo’s Result

Theo's Result

Lucas’s Result

The salted breeze felt good in his nostrils as the sun peeked somewhere over the horizon and splashed the clouds with highlights of pink and amber. The sand was course, and where he sat was cool. He watched the orange crabs skitter about amongst the fallen leaves from the palms and other debris before disappearing into their impromptu holes.

The station, Ken’s station was calling. He could feel the buzz and hum in his breast pocket, where he had tried to forget his cell phone. Uh.

Ken grabbed the phone out and put it up.

“You eat breakfast yet Kenny?”

“It’s 6 in the morning. You guys can’t give me until at least 9?”

“I don’t make the rules Ken, but hey, we sent you out there to do some work. Take the sites in while you can, but at the end of the day, just remember who paid for you ticket.”

“What do you need?”

“There’s going to be a concert in the pavilion beginning at 6pm and I you need to do some prep work. Good thing you’re already up.”

“The target?”

“Yes Ken. No big surprise there, huh. Ole shiny eyes hasn’t just been catching rays since he landed on the island on Tuesday. Seems he’s had two meeting with high-level not so well-known characters. They even managed to spend a little time at one of the local clubs. Hot Banana. You know it.”

“Of course I know it. I read the briefing.”

“Good. Then when I say pickup point 23, that should ring a bell?”

“Mangroves. Underside of the dock.”

“That’s the one.”

“Hold on. Everything is going great babe. Yeah, I’ve seen so many little lizards running around since I’ve been here…” Ken watched as a few men walked past him. One was obviously drunk. The rum was good out here. Apparently too good. The men weren’t a threat.”

“We okay?”

“Yeah, just some locals. Okay, pickup at 23 and then what?”

“I hope you brought your hiking boots. The pavilion is a popular venue because of the gorgeous hills and wonderful natural amphitheater that they form. A great spot to take in some music below and a wonderful vantage point above if you’re into something other than jazz.”

“I see. And my extraction? Is that still the same as was briefed?”

“Mechanic. Japanese fishing vessel. Don’t be late, otherwise this gets much more difficult.”

Carolyn’s Result

The salted breeze felt good in his nostrils as the sun peeked somewhere over the horizon and splashed the clouds with highlights of pink and amber. The sand was course, and where he sat was cool. He watched the orange crabs skitter about amongst the fallen leaves from the palms and other debris before disappearing into their impromptu holes.

The station, Ken’s station was calling. He could feel the buzz and hum in his breast pocket, where he had tried to forget his cell phone. Uh.

Ken grabbed the phone out and put it up.

“You eat breakfast yet Kenny?”

“It’s 6 in the morning. You guys can’t give me until at least 9?”

“I don’t make the rules Ken, but hey, we sent you out there to do some work. Take the sites in while you can, but at the end of the day, just remember who paid for you ticket.”

“What do you need?”

“There’s going to be a concert in the pavilion beginning at 6pm and I you need to do some prep work. Good thing you’re already up.”

“The target?”

“Yes Ken. No big surprise there, huh. Ole shiny eyes hasn’t just been catching rays since he landed on the island on Tuesday. Seems he’s had two meeting with high-level not so well-known characters. They even managed to spend a little time at one of the local clubs. Hot Banana. You know it.”

“Of course I know it. I read the briefing.”

“Good. Then when I say pickup point 23, that should ring a bell?”

“Mangroves. Underside of the dock.”

“That’s the one.”

“Hold on. Everything is going great babe. Yeah, I’ve seen so many little lizards running around since I’ve been here…” Ken watched as a few men walked past him. One was obviously drunk. The rum was good out here. Apparently too good. The men weren’t a threat.”

“We okay?”

“Yeah, just some locals. Okay, pickup at 23 and then what?”

“I hope you brought your hiking boots. The pavilion is a popular venue because of the gorgeous hills and wonderful natural amphitheater that they form. A great spot to take in some music below and a wonderful vantage point above if you’re into something other than jazz.”

“I see. And my extraction? Is that still the same as was briefed?”

“Mechanic. Japanese fishing vessel. Don’t be late, otherwise this gets much more difficult.”

Session 48: Cooking Grate – Featuring Karen Haskell of Frequency Writers

Cooking Grate

Gather around the fire and cook up some creative treats with writing instructor and operations director of Frequency Writers, Karen Haskell!

Karen Haskell has an MFA in writing from Sarah Lawrence College. Her chapbook Sixty Years was published by Finishing Line Press. Her work has been included in anthologies, RI Parent Magazine, and she was a member of the Listen to Your Mother Providence cast. Karen has over 12 years of experience as an administrator in non-profit adult education and as a teacher in higher education. She has also been a Frequency volunteer and student.


  • Old Tractor Parts
  • Making Our Way to the Woods
  • Markers and Markerboard
  • Keys and Wind
  • Drone
  • Cooking Grate
  • Replacing a Window
  • Mystic Exhibition Room
  • Morning Birds

Karen’s Result


The scrape of the ball
across the grass blades
is nearly noiseless
except to those living below
like the worms you worry about
when they appear bloated & translucent
on our driveway after a heavy rain.

You are not yet sure
how they can drown
without a lake.
You are 7 this fall.
The age Piaget
says reason begins.

I remember the neighbors
telling us that for years
they told their children
that the ice cream truck
was a music truck.
That it came every afternoon
just after the school bus
to help celebrate the day.

The neighbor’s children are
in middle school now
and the ice cream truck
stopped coming a long time ago.
This is how most things change.
Slowly, unseen,
tunneling under the surface,
unless the storm
pushes them out.

-Karen Haskell

Lucas’s Result

He pulled the heavy metal lid open and peered down into the blackness of the tanker. There hadn’t been any sign on the road of infiltration, but this was definitely a nice spot for shelter. Jad’s flashlight had died months prior when he had dropped it in the river during the county rock running competition.

Cotton candy, hot wieners, live music, and root beer. Jad had finished second during the competition, but he had trashed his light in the process. Funny how there was all the cotton candy and wieners in the world, and a guy couldn’t even keep track of the necessities.

Jad dropped down into the tanker. He landed hard on his knee when he hit the bottom. A flash of white shot through his eyeballs. Jad’s tried to control his breath.

There was something in the dark tanker.

“I’m a friend,” yelled Jad.

“No friend,” replied a deep, slushy voice from the other end of the tanker.

“Look, I’m sorry to barge in like this…”

“You bring the key? The one with the chain. The one that controls the trees and the wind?”

“Yes,” replied Jad. “I’ve got it, right here.”

He jumped up toward the lit circle of the open hatch above and desperately scrambled. Jad could feel a heavy weight wrap around his boot. He began to kick wildly.

“I’m gonna get that key.”

Jad kicked hard and caught something soft, possibly the creatures nose or lip. He twisted his body hard, forgetting how to live, and remembering how to survive.

Kick, one, two.

And then he slipped and fell back. When he landed back into the trailer he fell into the middle of an observation chamber. On a gurney. There were 20 spectators sitting on the edge of the high auditorium seats.

A surgeon approached with a large saw and bent down to Jad.

“I told you that I was going to get that key boy. Now give me that hand.”

Jad went to pull his arm only to find that it was fastened with a belt beside him.

“Just think about the birds.”

Carolyn’s Result

There are critters down below the leaf litter,
somebody squiggling between the rust of
the tractor hull – the cavernous muffler,
somebody with a body of noses
and a search key for decay
is nestling into the crowded underground.

As we age, we become more microscopic,
more tradeworthy, components exchanged
in this set and changing form –
this internal landscape.

I remind myself that nothing really goes away.
And that it is dangerous to speak of alls
and nothings and nevers and always.
The nerve of it! To suggest that the
conditional is only a subset of the
everlasting and that the ongoing isn’t
going to be or ever stay what we intended.

Still – isn’t it nice the way the ink glides,
the way sand falls into a pile,
how bells jangle on the post woman’s key chain,
how they give dog treats at the Dunkin Donuts drive thru window
and a golden retriever wags their whole body
in the backseat of the car ahead.

On old maps its always the north wind
pushing travelers astray – that blow hard –
I’m ok – I’ll sail astray, I’ll follow
the offshore bumblebee to new ground.
Look – a flower is already here. It’s
a smartweed – Persicaria – that’s good,
I’m glad I now it.

Again here goes always – isn’t there always
somebody alive, a snail crawling
in the piled coals of last night’s beach fire.
Right about there? See him?
You can pick him up if you put him right back.

Oh – he’s got a left spiraled shell –
that’s rare, we’ve found a stranger,
pink gray speckled, friend of the
tide and the tall sea foam.

Here. Here is an empty shell.
A more distant stranger. Put this one to you ear
and you just might hear your very own ocean.
There are birds there?
That’s good. That’s strange.
That’s good.

Session 47: Windy Day – Featuring T. Haven Morse

Windy Day

Unfurl your sails and join T. Haven Morse – author and winner of the Fall 2017 Literative Contest and the Endless Beautiful crew in this search for creative treasure!

T. Haven Morse

Walking the fine line between entertainment, intrigue, and offense, T. Haven Morse enjoys penning in the realms of both literary and genre, as well as, both poetry and stories. She likes to strike straight to the hearts and souls of readers when possible. Morse has previously published a persona poetry collection through Bountiful Balcony Books, entitled “Flooded By”, and has seen other pieces published in journals and anthologies world-wide including Haiku Journal, Paragraph Planet, 101Words, Verbatim Poetry, and “In Medias Res: Stories From the In-Between.” Her latest book to hit Amazon and bookshelves is “Beam Me Up, Yoda” – a fan fiction fauxetry collection of poems from one-hundred of the most iconic scifi/fantasy characters of all time. Haven lives in the heart of a Texas national forest and emerges from her sanctuary only when necessary for promotions and further adventures. Find her on social media outlets under her name (THavenMorse) and at


Website –

FB –

Twitter –


  • Walking Around on a Windy Day
  • Tree of Birds
  • Breakfast at Danny’s
  • Driving Junk
  • Native American Drums
  • BioBlitz Music
  • Muffled Waves

Track used during discussion:

“Solitude” by Entertainment for the Braindead

T. Haven’ s Result

T. Haven Morse
Endless Beautiful
Podcast Piece – Episode 43


I search for an escape.
Trapped in the white noise of life and suffering
Sucked down by the waves of tragedy and struggle

Maybe my escape will come by vehicle, maybe by foot
Crunching the gravel or snow or leaves of fall
Keep moving, keep trudging, toward outside-the-box

Unlock the door to salvation, to freedom,
Not into the comforts of home but into another realm
A place of uniqueness and extraordinary circumstance

No longer trapped in, no longer a slave to standard
The mundane and superficial, I long to descend the
Staircase of life into something more, my something more

Sirens call to me in the distance of my mind,
Birds cry out to me beckoning me toward higher places
Children’s laughter reminds me that I am not stuck here

Chaos is loud, noisy, and gritty but I would rather
Have that than the blank, placid, existence I’ve been
Living thus far. I need an escape.

Other people surround me, unaware of my search,
They are happy in their bubbles of normalcy
Families, friends, jobs, and the like

These are not what I want in my bubble,
In my world, give me scrapping, give me clawing,
Rip out my heart and feed it back to me.

Universe, grind me up and spit me back out,
I desire the grinding, the tearing of flesh, and bone,
It is the drumbeat in my tortured soul

This necessity for escape pounds in my ears,
Blinds my eyes, like three trapped mice,
My spirit throbs for release and freedom

Spirit of home, please release your daughter,
Let me soar in the skies of possibility,
Make mistakes and play to the sound of my own fiddle

Only when set free will I be able to breath
To relinquish your vision for my future and
Settle onto the beach of my own soul’s sunset

Wave goodbye as I run, say so long as I flee,
Don’t cry tears for me, this is what I need
As I search for an escape.

Lucas’s Result

A cold south wind ran across the church’s mottled stone face. It’s crimson door shone defiantly through the tumult of leaves dancing across the concrete. There was a storm coming and James didn’t have anywhere to sleep.

He went up to tall red door of the church. A yellowed, exposed bulb, dully lit the corridor. It’s filaments were much too old and frail. A friend.

James tried the brass hand of the door and half-surprisingly, the door nudged open. A blast of musty air filled his nostrils as he peered inside. The warmth made James feel the numbness in his cheeks. It had been a couple days since he had been inside.

The last spot was a broom closet on the backside of the school. The janitor took pity on James when she was taking out the trash. Told him that he had 15 minutes to sleep in the corner. He did, and when it was over, she told him that she would call the cops if she saw him again.

James pulled the door open a little further. He entered the church.

There was a jangle and a creek from within.

“This goddamn thing is going to be the end of me!” yelled a whiley old man with half a stoop. James went to pull the door open to leave.

“Oh no you don’t. You better get your ass in here and help with this pump.” The twisted white haired man had one hand on the level of a pump, the kind that James used to pull water from when he was young on his grandparent’s farm.

“Water?” asked James confused.

“Nope. Music and good vibes. Of course it’s fucking water! Now help me with this thing!”

James shut the door behind him and shuffled toward the old pump.

“Grab that bucket. That tin one behind you.”

“Good. Hold it up just like that. NOT LIKE THAT. YOU’LL DUMP IT ALL OUT! Okay. Here we go.”

“I hope you’re ready for a ride James.”

Carolyn’s Result

EB 047 with T.Haven Morse

Mushrooms are growing in the houseplants!
Amanita muscaria emerging from the potted dirt—
little jungle—do you bear me poison?
Where will your spores go
when soil is so scarce?
Somewhere—and here—apparently—
it’s not like I dust very much.
I’ll be your vector—your rain cloud.

I am mistress of the kingdom—
and among my cabinet (and on top of the fridge)
now reside living proof of the other kingdoms—
(bacteria and archaea are surely here too
but their votes are subtle, their advice discreet)
Good welcome dear advisers!
Can I get you some kibble and miracle gro?

Who else is here?
We are besieged by blue jays!
Starlings and squirrels rally on the fence posts.
Sirens and streetsong their war cry,
the backyard is the teeming moat
between us and the wider city.
Wandering marauders of dogs and their walkers
in the churchyard—their throne a threat or an offer:
the damp discarded armchair dumped
on the pine needle lawn.

Ready the trebuchet, we set launch
the fallen key lime petals—the wilted orchid and
the African violets tilt toward the windows,
archers and watchkeep. The Alocasia
shall be our general—the cat and
the sansevaria our last line of defense,
hardy beasts with each her own ferocious strength.

With the battle planned—should we head forth,
prepare for fire with our bellies warmed
by marching tunes? Settle in for the wind?
For the untiring draft in the windowpane?

Hang on—wind and window.
This is like coven and Coventry.
What witchcraft there is in words!
Their hidden plaintive attributes,
their being in there all along,
the mushrooms in the potting soil
emerging until they’re seen.

-CD 10.27.17

Session 46: Spinning Wheel and Stick – Featuring Kim Interdonato

Spinning Wheel and Stick

Try to find the perfect creative fit with the author of Shoes are Like Men and power skating instructor Kim Interdonato!

Kim Interdonato

I live in Long Island, New York . I am 46 years old ( ugh thank god I do not feel or act it ) I am a single mom, I have a cool energetic 8 year old son .

I was a competitive figure skater.. I have been a skating instructor for over 25 years … now I mainly teach the power skating / hockey.

I love  my job.

I wrote SHOES ARE LIKE MEN after a break up and was very down about my dating and life in general… after a lunch with a girlfriend she told me to look at my dating like trying on shoes .. with that advise, I took a long drive to the Hamptons and came up with the concept for the book.

My 2 no book will be out in a few months HEELS & HOCKEY SKATES. It is a female’s perspective working in the male dominated sport of hockey.


  • Spinning Wheel and Stick
  • Malachi’s
  • Throwing Bags
  • Roof Work Shower
  • Wide Forest
  • Wheaton Bridge Beats
  • Markers, Clips, and a Cup
  • Mystic Mast Head Room

Kim’s Result

Listen to the episode!

Lucas’s Result

She spun the barstool around as quickly as she could. It’s ruby red vinyl top shone bright. Lily like the feel of the cool silver aluminum against the palm of her hand. What a fun game she thought. A fun game to play on a cold afternoon, taking a break from skating in the park, drinking hot cocoa.

“Your drink is up Sweetheart,” said Frank. His face was round, and he had a wide white mustache. He set a big steaming mug up on the counter. Lily smiled. She hopped up on the stool.

Somebody threw a quarter in the old jukebox in the corner of Jelly’s, and a muffled country western song started to play through the worn speakers. Lily lowered her head down to the steaming mug of cocoa and took a quiet sip.

“What do you think?” yelled Frank from the other end of the counter. Lily smiled and took another sip.

The bell above the door rang. And Lily looked back to see two men and a woman enter. They looked like they had been covered in snow. The woman wore high black boots and the men rotten tennis shoes. She pointed over to the end of the bar where Lily was sitting, and they started walking over.

Lily’s head snapped forward, and she started to take a sip of her cocoa. She could feel them closing in. The woman, whose hair was long and red sat to Lily’s right, and the men to her left. She took a side glance over at the red haired woman and could see that she was smiling.

“You want to see a trick?” asked the woman. Lily wasn’t sure if the lady was talking to her or the men sitting past her. She felt a tug on her sweater. “Hey, little one, you want to see a trick?”

Lily took a drink and looked over at the woman full on. Her teeth were a crooked assortment. Her nose long and bent. She had smeared makeup layered upon more smears. Lily nodded slightly, hoping that the lady would just leave.

The red head reached into her jacket and pulled out a small wooden frog with a crank. She set it on the counter.


She touched the head and its little wooden mouth opened. Classical music began to play.

Carolyn’s Result

Who gathers the moss not caught by the rolling stone?
Would Sisyphus just quit it already
and look to the hillside – the anthills
and the bluebells clustered in the clover?
It’s good to slow down.
It’s good to take a break –
let myself be surprised by the cotton tail
and the Carolina wren – even by the thornbush
snagging me by the pantleg.
Hello thorn – modified leaf – you hurt me
and I’m letting you go.

Will you go with me to the party?
Play pinochle or Egyptian rat screw – only
the card game with the raunchiest name.
I don’t even remember how we got here
and I’m going to be ok with that –
I’ll go to the demolition derby mudder race
with my host mom’s sons and grandkids,
and I’ll get drenched beyond recognition.

I’ll be ok getting away from cognition,
the inner conversation and its tired repetition,
I’m hedging my bets on the truck named sedition,
custom designed and limited edition.

Hey chickadee.
I’ll pretend you’re 65290 –
banded by Leopold and come to tell me
an important message about ants eggs.
That I’ll listen to, of being a bird
and living inside and outside your
hollowed spot in the tree of pleasure.
Coming out of the wind to your winter nest.

The autumn is getting warmer –
snow flowers bloom – having skipped winter,
forsaking ardor, they play their cards,
betting that the bees will stay up longer.

I can’t make up my mind,
and I’m trying to remember
that I’m making all this up all the time.
I can’t see the dice in the backgammon shaker,
but I can delight in the strategy,
in the looking what to do with my play pieces,
letting the dice go and making my move.

CD 10.23.17