Answers to these and other questions are revealed in the new documentary of FinalRune's The Troll of Stony Brook.

Videomaster Matt Morris followed us around back in April for our recording in the woods of Alfred. He got some great clips of Bill Dufris (The Troll) manhandling Johnny Speckman (Rick) as well as commentary from the cast and yours truly zipping around like a decapitated chicken.

Click below to watch:

FinalRune - Troll - edit 3 from Matthew Morris on Vimeo.

Yes, you heard that right! On Aug 1-3 we got the opportunity to record with John Dryden, an independent producer whose work is regularly commissioned by the BBC.

John's impressive production credits include the Peabody-winning The Day That Lehmann Died, A Tokyo Murder, The Handmaid's Tale, and Fatherland.

The show this time is Severed Threads, a mini series which follows three stories - an investigative journalist uncovering child labor in India, a boy in the United Kingdom obsessed with violent YouTube videos, and a born again Christian in Minneapolis who's about to have his whole life unravel.

Each story was recorded in the continent where it takes place. In our case, we were recording scenes in New York City intended to take place in small town Minnesota - around a dinner table, in an office building, outside a church.

See some of the terrific actors we worked with during this scene, when Jim is sliced and diced by a television reporter:

The show will be airing on BBC Radio 4 in October, and we'll definitely let you know when you can hear it!

In the meantime, check out The Day That Lehman Died (BBC Radio Stream) for a taste of this documentary-style field recorded radio drama.

This new conflict, nay, War, will be a War fought against one of the most pervasive ills that has cursed civilization since the beginning. A War on... Poverty.

Wait. Poverty? How do you attack poverty?

This tongue in cheek 5 minute treat was produced for an audio engineering course Fred recently took with Dave Moulton (a Grammy nominated engineer) with the University of Maine in Augusta.

Voted most likely to get Fred on an FBI watch list!

Download The War on The War on Poverty (MP3)

Credits:

• Written, directed and produced by Fred Greenhalgh
• Dave Marshall - The Man in Black
• Bill Dufris - The President
• Burke Brimmer - The General
• Hannah Kramer - The Analyst
• Johnny Speckman - The Pilot
• Joe Duley - Co-Pilot
• Emily Burnham - Anchorwoman
• Philip Hobby - Anchorman
• Original music - Barb Truex

This production was recorded in-studio at Mind’s Eye Productions for a University of Maine Augusta audio engineering class, Spring 2010.    Sound effects and additional music courtesy of Sounddogs.com and Soundrangers.com.

Special thanks to the UMA Audio 319 class for the spring of 2010.

Download the Troll of Stony Brook: Episode 5 (MP3)

Download the Troll of Stony Brook: Episode 4 (MP3)

Download the Troll of Stony Brook: Episode 3

Download the Troll of Stony Brook: Episode 2

Killer artwork by Simon Adams

After several months of hard work, FinalRune is proud to release The Troll of Stony Brook, our first original title since the Ogle-award winning Waiting for a Window in 2008.

An awkward teenager, Jamie, is driving home one night from a party when he hits something - something big. His pushy co-worker, Rick, talks him into going back to the scene of the accident, where they find a creature pushed to the brink by human progress.

What follows is a startling and brutal experience - something that will change Jamie's life forever.

The show is available now as a free podcast and a paid download.

Wait, Why Do I Want to Pay for Something that is Free?

Good question. Here's how it works:

• To listen for free, simply go to www.finalrune.com/troll each Friday in July to download a new episode, or keep track of our podcast - either through RSS or through iTunes.
• That's it. Free is free. BUT, the catch - you only get to hear the show in 6-7 minute installments. There will be five podcast episodes altogether.
• If you don't want to wait to hear the end, you can buy the whole thing now for $2.99. Safe and secure through Paypal.
• In addition to the show, with the paid version you get two special music tracks - one long spacey jam by Barb Truex and a rockin' Bad Religion-esque tune from the Big Coffin Hunters - plus the warm and fuzzy feeling that you've made a meaningful contribution to independent art.

Killer artwork by Simon Adams

(Adventure/Fantasy)
Written, Directed and Produced by Frederick Greenhalgh

What would happen if a troll still lived in the diminishing wild around us?

To explore that question comes FinalRune's new show, The Troll of Stony Brook.

An awkward teenager, Jamie, is driving home one night from a party when he hits something - something big. His pushy co-worker, Rick, talks him into going back to the scene of the accident... and what they find will change them both forever.

Okay, I want to listen!

This show, like most things on the internet, is being released with both free and paid versions. The free version features individual scenes, 5-7 minutes long. A new one will appear each Friday in July, 2010.

The paid version allows you to skip the wait and hear the entirety of the show right now and get some free music tracks.

Episode 1:

Episode 2:

Episode 3:

Episode 4:

Episode 5:

I want more!

The show, in its entirety, is available as a paid download for the ridiculously small sum of $2.99. For this, you get:

• The "Director's Cut" complete production of The Troll of Stony Brook, professionally mixed and mastered
• Two bonus musical tracks - the extended "Notes of Mystery" by Barb Truex, and the CD-version of "Quantum Jesus" by Big Coffin Hunters
• The warm and fuzzy feeling that you're supporting independent artists doing something pretty unique.

Cast

• Philip Hobby as Jamie
• Bill Dufris as the Troll
• Hannah Kramer as Margo
• Johnny Speckman as Rick
• Joe Duley as angry customer and radio DJ
• Paul Drinan as manager
• Chris Newcomb as Officer 1
• Emily Myshrall as Dispatch
• Christine Marshall as TV reporter
• Christopher Price as Sgt. Dailys
• Charly Duley as the housewife
• Ed Patterson as Officer 2
• Dave Marshall as pilot
• Janice Gardner as the trollette

Recorded on location in South Portland and Alfred, Maine the spring of 2010. Additional studio recording courtesy of Mind's Eye Productions.

Crew

• Field recordist - Randall Farr
• Mixing engineer - Tony Marino
• Original musical score - Barb Truex
• The song “Quantum Jesus” - Big Coffin Hunters
• Additional sound effects courtesy of Mind’s Eye Productions.

Special thanks to Matt Morris, video guy extraordinaire.

Production Photos:

Killer artwork by Simon Adams

What would happen if a troll still lived in the diminishing wild around us?

To explore that question comes FinalRune's new show, The Troll of Stony Brook.

An awkward teenager, Jamie, is driving home one night from a party when he hits something - something big. His pushy co-worker, Rick, talks him into going back to the scene of the accident... and what they find will change them both forever.

This exciting story of what happens when nature is pushed to the brink takes place largely outdoors. So, in a true test of the field recording experience, the intrepid FinalRune cast and crew set out on a sunny spring day to record in the woods being Fred's off-grid homestead in Alfred, Maine.

As always, adventure happened - inevitable when you get a group of actors and interesting looking gear in random places.

We had kids looking on, were kicked off one prospective location, and even had a few people get lost as they made their way back from the woods! (For the record, Fred is not a registered Maine Guide).

Anyways, the audio is excellent, and in a bold coup there were even some scenes recorded in Bill Dufris' audiobook voice-over studio. Stay tuned for release in early June.

Here are some pictures (plenty more in our photo gallery):

The Troll (Bill Dufris) begs Jamie (Philip Hobby) to remember the wild things.

Reporter (Christine Marshall) and Sargeant (Christopher Price) at the scene of a horrific crime.

Fred giving direction at a car scene recorded in the woods.

The story's namesake - a new development in Southern Maine.

Like Window, Troll tells a somber story using wit, humor, and a bit of magic. It all starts when a teenager, Jamie, hits something in the woods while reaching for his cell phone. The creature runs off, but he can't help but return with a friend later to see what it was.

The result is a tragic and terrifying exploration of what happens when wild things are pushed to the brink by human expansion. Troll will be recorded on-location in early April 2009, and will be available as a free download later in April.

Want to know when this new show is out? Sign up for FinalRune Runescapes (our free monthly newsletter)!

We're often asked: when are you going to start charging for downloads?!

Well, my philosophy is simple. I want more people to hear this work, not to earn a few extra dollars per month.

Combine that attitude with the freeconomics of digital distribution and you start to come to the unusual economic path that is FinalRune.

A few years back I tried the experiment of charging for downloads - $1.99 for an MP3 of Fall of the Hero or Blind Man's Confession, which I thought was pretty reasonable - barely more than a song, and ten times as long!

The phenomenon? We went from several hundred downloads per week to practically none. I had maybe $10 more at the end of the month, but was failing at my bigger mission, which is to further the medium of audio drama and get people interested in my work.

Since then, everything's been free and downloads have really shot up - even before the Wall Street Journal we'd average about 1000 downloads a month, meanwhile, Radio Drama Revival gets upwards of 10,000 downloads a month!

The lesson? It's not hard to give away good content. And making this freely available is at least part of the reason we ended up in The Wall Street Journal to begin with - and how can you put a price on that?

But let's examine the question a bit more deeply.

Making the product freely available, without the foggiest expectation of pay, seems a bit ludicrous on the surface. The productions do, after all, cost money to make!

I've never bothered to track how many hours it takes me to write, cast, record, post-produce and market this work, but even myself aside we have actors, musicians, and a recordist who all show up when we produce this, and lately I've taken to paying these people!

But my underlying motivation is not to earn a buck, it's to create good art.

Free as a Business Model

While in our economy it is an implied assumption that if something is given away for free, it must not have value (or else that value must be picked up by another party, e.g. advertisers), to me, it's very different: I am going to do this anyways, because I love it. Because I'm hard-wired to tell stories.

Ask pretty much any artist, and you'll run into the same attitude, just varying extents of how much they've accepted the economic reality of our society. We can choose to go the way of the record companies, fighting tooth and nail to stop our audience from getting content the way that makes sense and is convenient for them, or we can choose to embrace digital technology and forge a different path.

So, all that being said, am I allergic to money? No. I'm in the process of looking for grants and other sources of funds to finance new productions - not because I'm sick of paying for it out of pocket, but only because my pockets are so small!

It's very possible that out of some of these new funding options we will create content that's not free - paid podcasts, commercially released audiobooks, etc. - FinalRune will always be creating some sort of free product in the interests of attracting, entertaining, and retaining new listeners.

Cash Isn't The Only Way to Get Rich

Let it be said that even when you don't receive cash, you can receive payment that is richer than gold. Here's what some listeners have said to us lately:

"My job is boring - boring - boring. What gets me through is listening to MP3 downloads ... Found your website and.... all I have to say is Thank You. You made my days a little better."

"I love the work you do. To me radio is everything... When I was born back in 1955 I was legally blind. Radio to me was my entire "field of vision" ... I hope this helps get the message out that the 'audio arts' are alive and well and living in our hEARtS"

Last but not least, the pitch: some listeners are so kind that with no request to do so at all, they have sent us some money. To these people, I bow low and offer my sincerest thanks. These generous donations make a tangible difference in our ability to make new shows!

If you believe in what we're doing, and want to help both fund new audio drama, won't you send us whatever you can afford? You can donate safely using Paypal:

But if you can't swing it, don't worry. We're still going to make these shows, and they're still going to be free. Free as in beer.

This is the video that appeared in the Wall Street Journal article! Will keep it posted here as long as the link is live...

In this scene we show a continuous take of actors leaving a car, going up some steps and then entering a house

In this take, we see another continuous take, this time of the detective (Bill Dufris) arriving at a house, greeting the widow (Christine Marshall) and then entering the house.

Bill Dufris and Christopher Price piled in the back of a car!

Author Archer Mayor comments on seeing his work become an audio drama!

The article, entitled "Return With Us to the Thrilling Days Of Yesteryear—Via the Internet," heavily focused on our signature field recording style and director Fred Greenhalgh's passion for reviving audio drama in an age of the iPod.

Quick Link: The project featured in the story in the Joe Gunther Pilot

Listen to the FIRST EPISODE of this New Production:

Download the Joe Gunther Pilot! (MP3)

Reporter Barry Newman writes:

Radio drama, ranging from "Captain Midnight" to the high art of Orson Welles, thrived for 40 years in America. It was all but gone by the 1960s, killed off by television. Yet now that TV must contend with the Internet, the Internet has given radio drama a whisper of new life. It can't be called "radio drama" anymore, since hardly any of it gets on the radio. Mr. Greenhalgh settles for "audio drama," but the catchiest name for it is "mind movie."

Sue Zizza, a sound-effects artist who teaches at New York University, figures there are about 300 "true, quality audio dramatists" active in the U.S. She helps put on a one-week "audio theater" summer workshop that has lately been attracting 100 trainees. In 2006, one was Fred Greenhalgh.

"What amazes me is that audio drama just won't go away," Ms. Zizza says. "It's so primal in us. No matter how much we ignore it, there are still people out there like Fred."

He grew up on the Maine coast writing short stories. At the University of Southern Maine, unpublished, he rewrote one of them as a radio script, replacing sights with sounds, as in: "Storm increases with violent intensity until it unleashes a mighty burst of lightning."

Mighty bursts were produced in radio's golden age by shaking tin sheets in a studio. Now, mighty bursts are downloadable. But Mr. Greenhalgh can't afford studio rent and prefers not to buy (or steal) anyone else's thunder. He harvests lightning by walking out into a storm with a recorder and a microphone.

We have a ton of people to thank, in no particular order:

• Reporter Barry Newman who made the journey all the way to Maine in the midst of a snowstorm (remember those?)
• Marty Cohn and Archer Mayor of Vermont Audio Drama Podcasting (VTAD) for kick starting an amazing new project
• Mad Horse Theater Company for letting us use their space for the field recording
• The awesome cast and crew who showed what FinalRune is made of!

Announcing: Open Season the Audio Drama

An old lady tormented by lewd phone calls blasts a man with a shotgun as he walks in through the door, and Brattleboro's everyman detective, Joe Gunther, is called out to investigate.

It's clear that not everything is as it seems - the description of the phone calls and the dead man outside don't match up.

And even stranger, the dead man and the old lady were jurors on the same controversial trial three years ago.

So begins "Open Season," the inaugural Joe Gunther novel from Archer Mayor (THE PRICE OF MALICE, OCCAM'S RAZOR), an author who has earned lofty praise from The New York Times and Chicago Tribune.

Listen to the FIRST EPISODE of this New Production:

Download the Joe Gunther Pilot! (MP3)

Credits:

Written by Archer Mayor, audio adaptation by Fred Greenhalgh. Produced and Directed by Fred Greenhalgh.

• Bill Dufris as Joe Gunther
• Christopher Price as Patrol Officer, Patrolman, and JP
• Philip Hobby as Katz and Gould
• Burke Brimmer as Sergeant
• Kym Dakin as Reitz
• Christine Marshall as Mrs. Philips

Field recording by Randall Farr, original score by James Munro. Holiday music by Kevin Macleod.

Something Different in Audiobook Publishing

In a startling divergence from traditional audiobook production, Vermont Audio Drama Podcasting commissioned FinalRune Productions to produce a pilot episode for what will become a serialization of the novel "Open Season."

This pilot was recorded in FinalRune's signature on-location recording style at an old house in South Portland, Maine (courtesy of Mad Horse Theater Company) with a compliment of excellent Maine-based actors including Audie-award winning narrator Bill Dufris.

Actors crowded into the back seat of a car and drove through the snow, got out of cars and walked up stairs while shouting lines, and acted off one another in claustrophobic rooms - much like recording a movie, only without the camera.

Field Recording Production Photos:

Why Record This Way?

Recording on-location imparts a sonic reality and level of richness impossible to achieve in a traditional sound studio. The finished production sounds much more like an "audio movie," resulting in a more engrossing listening experience.

The episodic nature of the project is also uniquely suited to the way we listen today. This serial will be easily listened to on an iPod, Kindle, iPad, or other mobile device. Like the old time radio days, installments will about 30 minutes long, leaving listeners eager to hear what will happen next!

I Want More!

If you'd like more information on the audio pilot, or to hear more of it, contact Vermont Audio Drama Podcasting.

We're also starting a mailing list, if you want to hear when more news is available on this project, just drop in your email below (we will use it for NOTHING else!).

And there's plenty more good audio available right now produced by FinalRune - check out our stories page to get listening.

Download Poem Read Aloud by Author (MP3)

I'm not religious, but
every morning, as I get off work
I buy Dixie's first black coffee
and walk home with a disposable cup.

The city snores, coughs, and murmurs.
Darkness clings to concrete eaves.
I trip over a man, thinking he's a garbage bag.

I'm not religious, but
5AM is an odd hour. You feel safe-the criminals are sleeping.
I cut down streets where roses grow
around barbed wire.

Stopping by a church at the meeting
of two roads,
Piety and Desire,
I light a damp cigarette.
There's caution tape around the Virgin
and grass crawling from cracks in the asphalt.

I'm not religious, but
there are twelve more dead today.
I can read the front page through a window gouged with the word 'CUNT.'
I save my fifty-cents for the laundromat.

One time, while my socks were drying,
a man staggered in with a gun.
I lowered my book to see the clerk
reverently emptying the register
as if waiting his whole life for this moment.

Though I'm not religious,
I still wonder, when I see two pigeons fight
for an empty potato chip bag, or drink
from a film of diesel fuel-

But that's no way to go to bed; easier to crush
the Styrofoam cup as you climb each stair to the seventh
story, lighting your last cigarette on a balcony,
wishing you could see the sunrise.

A young man, delirious in the desert, goes on a fantastic journey.

Download this story read aloud by the author (MP3).

Dog tired. Dehydrated. An eternity in furnace heat, mostly without water.

Still trudging along an unending highway in the painted desert. A blanket of colors engulfs my vision. Black dances with blue and violet and murmurs through a hue of magenta. I try to keep my mind off the color of death.

I've nearly forgotten my name when a late-90s indigo Caravan slows down to the shoulder maybe fifty feet down the road. I don't know if I should believe it.

I've heard of mirages. The California plate reads "CHARON."

I haul myself up and stumble to the car. Looking through tinted glass, I only see a thick silhouette of a middle-aged man.

"Where are you headed?" he says.

"Out of here, man," I say, "I'm trying to get to L.A."

"I'm not going that far."

"Down the road then."

"Very well," he says, "Get in."

I open the rear door to toss in my beaten-up L.L. Bean rucksack and hop into the passenger's side. The driver peels off before he asks me my name. I stumble with my tongue, as if giving him this information is vital.

"I'm David," I say.

"Greetings," he says, eyes on the road, not even taking my hand.

"You saved me, man, I thought I was dogfood. I've been without water for hours."

"In this heat?" he says, almost rhetorically.

I nod, savoring the way the A/C cools my chapped skin.

"You wouldn't happen to have any water, would you?"

"A little," he says, "In the back."

I whisper thanks and turn around. It strikes me how precise this car is, like it belongs either to someone totally anal about tidiness or to someone who never drives it. The seats are bare except for my rucksack, the back deck is empty, and it still smells new. There are two glass jugs of water behind the driver's seat.

"One of these for your radiator?" I ask.

"No, both."

"Oh. Well at least it's water."

"It is."

I pull one of the jugs to the front with me, trying to act like he's not being curt. It actually doesn't faze me. A lot of rides are from folks who're scared stiff. I'm grateful they pick me up, though I don't really know why. Hitching for three months leaves me with the same questions I had when I left. A tall lanky white boy with scraggly long hair, an ambiguous accent, and a sweat-stained, battered backpack. What's there to be scared of?

Whatever. I screw off the lid of the huge water vessel and take a swig.

"Augh!" I cry as I spit the water back out, "It burns!"

The driver shrugs.

"You should've told me!" I say.

"The water is what it is."

"But come on! This doesn't even taste like water."

He doesn't respond. I look back at the jug. God, I'm thirsty. I reluctantly take another sip, and it is just as harsh. I manage to gulp down enough to hold my thirst back a little.

"Well, I guess it's water."

Silence.

"I'm coming from up North. Never seen heat like this."

This elicits maybe a grunt.

"Yeah. Boston, actually. Well, not Boston Boston. A suburb. Actually nearer the Cape. It's nice though, I guess; this time of year they say it's the best weather in the country. Winters suck, though. Real cold."

"I see."

"Yeah. Never saw much other than New York, D.C. a couple of times, the rest of New England. I wanted something different, so I left home."

"Ah, you're a traveler."

"Absolutely. I'm never turning back."

"Have you found what you're looking for?"

The sudden question gives me pause.

"What do you mean?"

"Every traveler has a prize and a destination."

"Well I'm going to L.A., I guess."

"So you have half of it down."

My eyes drift to the sea of toneless dunes.

"I guess so," I say, my tongue sticking to the sandpaper of my still-dry mouth, "I guess, well, I guess I never really thought about it that way."

"Without a goal, the quest has no purpose and the journey is meaningless. Remember that."

"Sure," I say, still perplexed by his audacity, "I'll keep that in mind."

The conversation closes like a lid. I lapse into silence regretfully. The problem with silence is that it's really hard to break afterwards. I stare through the desert's rifts and crevices, trying to collect my thoughts as they whirl like dustdevils through my mind. I'm too drained to concentrate. I resign contemplation for the moment and suddenly long to hear some music. Anything but the quiet drone of the engine and A/C fanblades.

"Can I put on the radio?"

"Why?"

The question gives me pause.

"Well, you know, let's hear some tunes. It makes the time pass faster."

"Ah, that's it."

I scratch my stubbly chin.

"Well can I?"

"Be my guest."

I press the black ridged button in the middle of the bare console. A sizzling fuzz comes from the speakers. I grimace and start tooling with the knob. At one moment I think I catch a distant whisper of talk radio, the word "redemption" and then it's just dull fuzz again. I deliberately sigh and turn it off.

"Nothing out here."

"There's plenty."

"What? Cacti and buzzards?"

He only shrugs now and returns to silence. His crytic statements are starting to rub me the wrong way.

"Seriously, what's out there?"

I start to think he's never going to respond. I'm about to turn to the windshield to stare dazed at vast emptiness when he speaks.

"The desert speaks quietly. It is a mirror to look at."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask.

"I've told you enough," he says.

"Fine," I spit and lean against the window. There is a silence between the drone of the engine and the frenzy of my own thoughts. This gibberish is driving me nuts. I close my eyes and red afterimage soaks into the black behind my eyes. Who knows where I'll end up, but fuck it. Maybe I can get some shut-eye.

***

I wake up to the driver nudging me, his palm open.

"Fifty-cent toll."

This abrupt stop doesn't wake me exactly. The next few moments are a brilliant stupor. A dream resonates on my memory, though the images begin to evaporate. I remember walking through the desert, surrounded by pillars of gold, something like El Dorado. I hold a shell in one hand and a coin in the other, and my feet are being tugged as if in the ocean. I hear a wolf cry out, and, in that weird dream way, I guess, the wolf cry turns into wind...

"Well?"

"Yeah, yeah I got quarters," I say.

I rifle around in my pockets, yanking out a pile of crumpled receipts, some crushed dollars, a couple of dimes and nickels, and a scrap of paper with a girl's number on it who told me to call her when I got to California. I finally find the quarters.

"Thanks," he says as I hand them over.

This is one of the strangest tolls I've ever seen. Then again, I'm really in the west now, so a lot of things are strange to me. But there's no teller in the booth; in fact, the whole setup looks like it's been abandoned for a very long time. The bridge is a concrete slab connecting land across this thin but dramatic ravine. I could just imagine this ravine being a moat for a great kingdom, an island of land protected by a drop that'd keep out anyone without wings. Now, it's just this weird old bridge, with a drop slot for the coins and a plastic gate that lifts up as the coins rolled down into a metal bucket. He drives across wordlessly.

Me, I'm entranced by the ravine. I try to see the bottom, but I can't, and I try to wrap my head around the idea. Is there really water here in the desert? How far down is it, then? How deep? Where does it go, and why?

"We're almost there," he says.

This is a huge relief. Though it's not too late for him to pull over and garrote me and throw me in the trunk with the other three bodies, I get some sense I'll make it through this one. I don't like carrying a knife but you need to if you're traveling this country alone. There is madness and violence everywhere. And weirdos, too, from my experience with this guy.

Five, ten, whatever minutes later, he slows down in front of a series of large barn-sized buildings. If we hadn't slowed down, I don't think I'd ever notice them. They blend right into the desert.

"End of the line."

I look around skeptically.

"This is town?"

He just nods, not giving any sign that he'll be going any further.

"Jesus Christ. I can't get out here."

He's silent.

"Right, screw it then. Thank you sir."

I extend my hand for him to shake, but he ignores it. I just get out of the car and reach for the rear door handle as he peels away.

"Hey!" I yell, "HEY!"

Goddamn. He's off in the distance and I'm screaming and waving. I guess I look like a lunatic, but then again I'm losing my mind. I scream my fucking lungs out and kick and curse the earth. But actually, I'm not alone.

"Ayauk!" comes a piercing cry from behind me. I spin, suddenly on the defensive.

An elderly native American, dressed in a Navajo patterned throw, stands twenty feet from me with dust dancing in his path. Something about his presence suggests he could vanish into the desert at will. He carries himself with the presence of an cypress tree and has white locks that could be Spanish Moss. Ageless. I guess I'd say he looks ageless.

"Young man, be calm now, you will disturb the spirits," he says, still moving.

He appraises my awkward ensemble.

"What troubles you?" he asks.

I'm too frustrated to make sense. I manage to spit out "my backpack" "this guy" "drove away" enough times for him to get it.

"Come in," he says, "Have a drink; it'll ease your spirits."

"I don't have a dollar to my name," I say, "That's what I'm talking about."

"Taps flow free to weary travelers. Enter, son."

He leads me to the largest of the series of buildings that look like an abandoned Hollywood Western. Something between Desperado and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Despite the heat, there is an eerie cool to this avenue of empty buildings. We approach the head of this line of buildings, and sure enough, "SALOON" is readable in all but vanished script. My guide reaches towards the saloon doors and is met by a series of barks. A huge dog bounds out of the gates to bark viciously at me. I recoil in fear but my guide silences the dog with a snap of his fingers.

"Cecil, mind our guest."

I hesitate to call this dog a dog, I mean, he's the size of three pretty big dogs. We're talking Cujo here. Even with the native's blessings, the dog's lips peel back a little to bear a row of ivory teeth. The dog's velvet black coat shimmers in the twilight sun. Its monotone growl sounds like an engine. I tiptoe around it and follow the native into the saloon.

Sure enough, it follows the movie set motif. There's a scuffed and stained bar, old fashioned kegs, and a desert mural painted on the ceiling. Card tables populate the area around the raised dance floor. A player piano sits in the corner. I could imagine Butch and Sundance swaggering in at any moment. I take a seat at the empty bar as the Indian man walks around. I eye the bar. Lots of empty musty bottles everywhere, and a beer tap with a faded label. I suddenly remember how thirsty I am. I pry my tongue off my cotton mouth.

"Can I get a glass of water?"

The man smiles.

"Certainly."

He pours a drink from the tarnished brass tap.

I look at the murky liquid inside a clouded glass.

"I'm not sure about that."

"I insist, friend. One never forgets the taste of River Water. It'll take all your cares away."

I guess it doesn't take that much convincing. I take a sip, and everything he says is true. It is the sweetest drink I've ever tasted. While my belly warms, the rest of my body settles into a tranquil chill. It's unlike anything I've ever had before-it's not sweetness like I remember it. Drinking it is like drinking the colors of sunset; first it is amber that deepens into orange, gold and then a fiery red. The next drink burns and then cools, like a blade removed from a furnace. Then it settles into violent lavender, murky blues, and then finally, the last sip is as cool as night in the desert and my mind is just that clear.

"Wow," I say.

The Indian smiles.

"All we have is time, my friend, and time is for telling stories. So tell me yours."

In this state of mind I'd tell him everything, and actually, I start doing just that.

"I grew up disgustingly rich, I had everything. But everything isn't very interesting. I was rich and bored. I drifted through college, not even seeing what college is all about. I had honors and an 'in' on Harvard Law. On my 22^nd birthday I got trashed and puked and when I came out of the bathroom, it just wasn't the same. I saw all my friends, my girlfriend, even, this hottie who was homecoming queen. I told them I was going to be sick again but I ran outside. "I started walking--it was spring then, rain was pouring. I felt like my body was oil and the rain and I didn't mix. I wanted to be absorbed. My whole life, it seemed, was all these dreams I thought I'd never do. Fuck, I'd never even seen the West Coast. I was just about ready then to either hurl myself off Boston Harbor or go back and resign myself to that empty existence. But something different happened. I walked to South Station. I bought a ticket to Memphis and have been on the road ever since."

He took this all in solemnly.

"This place welcomes many a lost traveler."

"I'm not lost."

"True, you're finally somewhere."

Suddenly I remembered what that meant. Not a coin in my pocket.

"Yeah. Fuck. I guess I am."

"Your possessions, my friend. You truly worry about them?"

"Of course I do! I need my sleeping bag, my tent, a change of clothes, food, everything I own-"

"Did you not just say you left that behind you?"

"Yes, yes, but, you see that's different. This is just what I need to survive."

"A lot of something and a little of something are the same thing. I am surprised you do not understand this."

I pondered this a moment.

"I don't get all that Zen bullshit. Now having a Hummer versus a motorcycle, I see the difference there. I see the difference between eating till you puke and living off rice and pasta. But you can't totally live without bread."

"But of course you can. The problem is that you are seeing bread the wrong way. You see possessions as different from you, something you can have dominion over. You do not see that your essence and the world's essence are identical. Do not worry about feeding your body. You must have faith. Faith will feed you."

"I'm not following you."

"That drink you had."

"Yes?"

"How did the drink arrive?"

"You poured it for me."

"Did you search for the drink?"

"No?"

"Yet it arrived nonetheless. That is what I mean."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Of course it does," he says, wearing a smug grin, "Why aren't you thirsty right now?"

I almost say the same thing I did a moment ago. But then I don't. A curiosity crosses my mind.

"I asked for it."

"There you go," he says, and now he is smiling.

"Well?" I ask.

"Well?" he responds.

"Can I have another drink?"

"Absolutely," he says, and turns to pour it from a rusty tap.

He places the glass in front of me with more of the murky liquid.

"To health," he says.

I eagerly guzzle down the second drink, hopeful for the same rush of clarity, but none arrives. The Navajo man looks at me and sighs. He shakes his head.

Then the crowd bursts through the door.

I sit with a wide-jaw as the largest group of characters I've ever seen rushes in like a flash-flood. We have stick-tall queens and rotund Italians and debonair men in black suits and war chiefs and parasol-wielding English royalty. A handful of the most interesting characters in history turn the quiet, barn-smelling bar into a romping speakeasy. Agape, I turn to the Indian bartender who is aflight, serving patrons with fervor and flair. The player-piano is rocketing through the Maple Leaf Rag at one-and-a-half speed. Coupled with the roar of chitchat, it feels as if some outrageous squall has swelled underneath my feet, up and into the room and conquered it, taking me for a ride into some strange and unknown land. My drink is gone and two burly men in red tights are shouldering me, trying to make it to the bar. I squeeze out and run to the door.

I have to fight the crowd to squeeze through the double-doors, at last hurling my body weight into it and careening into the street.

Immediate disorientation.

The vacant street and wide-open desert is now a bustling old west town, with broad black strokes indicating the town's service buildings: BANK, PHARMACY, MARKET. The word "SALOON" now shines like a lantern across the bustling avenue.

Smaller tents with Indian patterns clutter the mall between the row of buildings. In each of the tents are vendors with a myriad of wares for sale, from jewelry to flatbread to bone-carved weapons. A swell of people, of the same exotic mix as the saloon, pass from vendor to vendor and up and down the street.

It is late dusk. Each second that passes seems to verify this reality stronger in my mind. I'm not sure how long I stand here stunned, but I am thrown back into my senses as a carriage rolls through town. Three black horses snort and lumber by, directed by a man in a black tophat and a long black coat.

The guy with the license plate "CHARON."

"Hey!" I yell, "Hey!"

My words don't seem to do much so I run up to the carriage, which isn't moving all that fast. I grab onto the side footstep and spring up, hauling myself to my feet by grabbing the door handle. I shimmy over to the front seat.

"Where the hell is my rucksack, man?"

He ignores me for so long that I ask him the same question twice. He reluctantly turns to look at me.

"You're on a one-way trip. What else do you wish you'd taken with you?"

His question is cryptic and sensible all at the same time. I begin to ask another question, but suddenly can't remember what or why I was going to ask. I don't even know who I am anymore. I slump to a sitting position beside him as he leads the formidable horses.

He decides to give me a tour.

"This is a rather nice place," he says, "You'll be glad you made it. There are artists and writers of all sorts, such as the Watsons and the Bakers."

He indicates a group of white bohemians in a flurry of exotic colors. He goes on to point out more strange groups of people.

"The musicians are mostly locals, and play things like the sitar and smoke the peace pipe. They also employ a large group of dancers, who will take you to bed if you tell them the secrets of the stars. What else? The playwrights, and even lately the movie stars, though there really isn't much place for movies, we don't even have a theater. In fact, we don't have much of anything. There's no day around here, really. So don't bother the bank and the market. They're just there for the tourists' benefits. You've been to the saloon, right? That's the only place to go during this long night."

Strange thing is, I start to accept these things. I make a rather obvious observation.

"It's still dusk."

"For you it is, son. Don't fret it. You won't be up before midnight again."

"But all these people?"

"Mostly newcomers. And the welcoming committee." He smiles. "The night hasn't even begun yet."

A cold feeling overcomes me.

"I think I need to get off."

"Of course!" he laughs, "Of course! How far do you think I was going to take you? I run the same route all night. In I come with new visitors, but never out."

I roll off and hit the ground hard. But not hard enough to keep me from scrambling to my feet and running back towards town. Though the town is a circus, a strange land I doubt I can make sense of, it's better than the desert. The desert's just mirages and long stretches of painted sand. The last purple ray of sun has hit the edge of the dunes. It's gone from twilight to gloaming.

As I barrel into town, an assortment of bizarre faces evaluate me. I nearly rush into a cockeyed Spanish swordfighter. I spin, then leap over a little tent with a young Indian woman selling shells, scattering her goods as I fly past. My momentum throws me against the wall of the bank. I stop a moment to catch my breath, hoping to become invisible, but I'm apparently quite an attraction. A whole swell of people in the tide of the market comes to a halt to stare at me.

What am I going to say?

My chance is stolen by the barking of a dog.

I swing around to see Cecil snarling behind me. He's crouched so he's nearly standing upright. I swing around, turning my back on the crowd.

"Easy now, pup, just chillll."

I guess this means gibberish in dogspeak because he suddenly lunges for me and I roll to my left and start running again, ever to the amusement of the crowd. I tear ass through town, hopping lines of the market tents and slamming against the door of the saloon. As I fly in, I realize the door swings both ways.

Inside, the party's really picked up.

Belly-dancers are on some of the tables and others are lap-dancing the hi-rolling winners. The player piano is at an even more frenzied pace, now playing some out of control jazz tune. The Navajo bartender is moving so fast that he almost seems a blur, a shadow, a ghost. I push through the crowd and force my way to the bar, upsetting a bearded man trying to get with a ballerina. I start shouting for the Navajo man.

He hesitates a moment and I try to get some sort of answer from him.

"What's going on?" I scream to him.

"You still have not learned, have you?" he yells back, "You are still trying to make sense and are not simply being."

That's all he has to offer? In a blur he dashes to my left again, bringing drinks up and down the time-stained bar. The only straight thing I get from him is another drink, and I take it eagerly and start slowly, unsure when I'll be able to get another one.

I'm enjoying the first fluid colors of the River Water even without the initial mind-altering rush. With music joining the exotic taste, reality still seems to twist and turn. I start to lose myself in the reckless jazz, start mumbling "bee-wees" and "doo-wops" to myself. I am somewhere else.

"You're finally feeling it, honey, good."

I glance over, disoriented and self conscious. It's the ballerina. Apparently I disrupted the attempts of the dwarf-man earlier. She edges closer to me.

"What's that?" I say.

She smiles, a broad, toothy smile. She has ruby lipstick and a matching leotard. Glitter brings out her round smile and broad bust. She has her hair up in a bun behind two cat ears.

"You're feeling it baby, all through you. You've got the music. You've got the groove. I was worrying about you, seeing you run right out that door like a scared mouse earlier. Tisk tisk. But ohhh yeah you got it now, and momma loves to see it."

Now I really don't know what to make of this, save to indulge. I nod to her, slowly, because I'm inarticulate. I start to dance a little to the jazz. She slinks over and matches my ill-matched steps. I kill my drink and then we take off together.

Going not by notions or rules so much as intuition, guided by the music, I start to jiggle and twist across to the dance floor of the speakeasy. She's right behind me the whole time, getting more into it the crazier I get.

I let out a catcall and she lets out a purr. We spin around and stare into one another's eyes. There is no place for words anymore. The only way we can speak is this confused, intoxicated motion. I start to connect with the universe, imploding in upon itself and then blowing out, only to connect again, swirl around, and continue its path of rebirth in chaos.

"Ohhh yeah," she whispers in my ear, licking gently as her lips part away.

This is too much to take. I burrow into her, grab her, pull her tight to me, start to spin around with her grinding against me. She recoils suddenly, grabs at my back and digs in with savage claws. I lose my footing, sprawl sideways, roll onto a table of card sharks and then slide, spilling drinks and the cards fly like a scattered group of pigeons. I slam against the floor and do my best recovery, which is slow and graceless.

"Mannie! Maneeeee!" the ballerina cries, and another huge form appears in front of me. This guy is almost an ape, all hair and muscle, black slacks and tight white shirt.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asks.

"Ohhh Mannie it was tragic," she cries, "He, I almost thought he had it but then he? oh, he got, he got so rancid!"

"Poor form," he snarls, then appraises me. "You lookin' for a beating?"

"Me?" I yelp. "No no no, course not."

"Well that stinks," he says, "Because you're sure as hell gettin' one."

I scramble back but whoever is behind me shoves me forward and Mannie snatches me around the throat and hoists me up and I'm left staring into his way-less-than-pleased eyes. I grit my teeth, ready for impact.

Thank God, it never comes. The Navajo man sticks an arm between us and Mannie promptly drops me to the ground.

"Back off, M, he's new. I have great hopes for him, he just hasn't let go yet. He's still attached to what he thinks he knows."

Mannie steps down.

"I guess that's why you're still here, pal, huh?" he laughs. "Get him another drink! Let the night roll on!"

"I think I've had enough" I spurt out and head for the door.

With night firmly set in, the personality of the street has changed yet again. A line for the saloon runs along the mall. Most of the vendors have wrapped up their goods to head home or to stand in line with the hundreds in front of the saloon. As I stagger out, I notice that the bouncer is actually the dwarf who was with the ballerina earlier. We exchange awkward looks before he calls out

"NEXT!"

I wander towards the remaining vendors and glance at what goods they have with an aloof eye. The jewelry and pottery is well-crafted and attractive, but it's nothing I want to burden myself with. Actually, I begin to notice that physical goods in general can hardly hold my interest. I only stop when I see a young woman with braided black hair and a sea-blue dress. She's the one selling shells, the one I nearly trampled earlier. I figure this is as good a conversation starter as any.

"Sorry about that," I say.

She continues to look down.

"Running past you," I continue, "I must have upset your whole booth."

"Oh," she whispers, at last, "I guess I didn't notice."

She's still not looking up, so I crouch down.

"These are very beautiful," I say, picking up a shell, "Where did you get them?"

"I found them," she says.

"In the desert?"

She giggles, and finally looks up.

"Silly."

"What do you mean, 'silly'?"

"The desert or the sea, what does it matter? I wanted shells, so I found shells."

If I didn't adore her gentle and innocent face so much, I would march right off in a huff.

"What do you mean, you 'found' shells? They had to come from somewhere."

"I went for a walk one day, thinking of shells. It was dead night, and the wind arose and a storm was brewing. When it finally unleashed, I sat down and prayed. When it was all gone, I had shells. Does that make sense to you?"

No, not really.

"You're selling them, these things you found on this... walk of yours?"

She giggles again.

"Sell? Of course not. They're for the taking."

"Taking? You mean I can just have one?"

She covers her face with a delicate hand.

"You're just flirting with me."

I look at the miniature conk shell and let it rest in my palm; I adore its pure white, its cotton softness.

"I would like this one," I say.

She smiles.

"By all means."

I pocket it, then glance to the distant desert as a crisp breeze scatters sand from the distant dunes. My heart seems tugged in that direction.

"You just found these," I muse, "Walking in the desert?"

She nods, as if to say "you're still not getting it, huh?"

"I think I might just go myself," I say.

She leaps up on her haunches.

"Oh no, you're too new, you can't do that."

"Why not?"

"The desert is not a place for the lost to wander. All the things you carry with you are burdens once you enter the desert."

"I get the feeling that's the case already."

"Please," she says, reaching forward, almost touching me, then pulling her hand back abashed.

"I can't explain it," I say, "I feel as if the desert is calling me, pulling me towards it."

At last she understands. She lifts her eyes to me, deep, serene, sapphire eyes.

"Then follow its call. Those are the things you believe, whispers of nature, not screams of men."

I stand, and the wind continues to pull, singing louder and louder.

"Thank you for the--advice," I say, "And the shell. Especially the shell."

Without another word I part with a smile along the course the wind tugs me across the cool desert night.

***

It takes at least two hours after the fact for me to admit it to myself. I am lost. Not disoriented, not off course, but wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am (don't-know-how-I-got -here) lost. I tried to keep attention, to keep my mind alert, but the desert has a way of singing you lullabies. A sudden chill wind bites into my bones and I fall to my knees on a sand dune, desperation clawing at my throat, burning out my eyes. The wind dies again and the landscape is silent.

I fall to my knees in the absolute darkness. There is a place here where the soul knows no comfort. It is an ember against this curtain of darkness. Still, I breathe deeply, as if it rouse the quiet coal. The darkness soaks through my skin and with patient breathing, I wait out this darkest hour of night. Time stands still for a long, long moment. I open my eyes again.

Now I can see everything. The moon sits atop the dunes, snaking ever upward by the moment.

The sands, fully soaked in white, suddenly enchant, rather than intimidate.

I find beauty in the painted dunes. The hills and valleys and plains are roads, not walls. And somehow, the desert smells like jasmine.

A forlorn cry echoes across the landscape.

I can hardly believe my eyes. Cecil, the lurching, red-eyed dog, bounds up the dune and snarls before me, spraying ugly white drool on the painted sand. Did he follow me? Have I been leading him, or he leading me?

"Ssh? pup," I whisper, "Calm now, there is no reason for you to cry?"

Again, the dog has no sense of my words. He claws the ground and paces, sizes me up.

"Ssh? don't cry?"

Cecil lunges then, and I attempt to sidestep him, but his deft jaws close around my calf and hurl me to the ground. I twist on my way down, and try to right myself as Cecil's firm jaws hold me in a vice. I kick in vain, only rooting his teeth deeper into my muscle.

This is it, I think. The dog has me now.

At least, until I grope in my pockets and snake my fingers around the shell. Without thinking, I place the shell against my ear and hear the ocean. All those miles away, I can still hear it smashing, rolling, smashing again. I know it's an illusion, a trick of the way wind moves, but suddenly the anomaly seems perfect, whole, complete. The ocean in the desert. I pull the shell, this wild, precious, miraculously unbroken thing, and place it to my lips.

I fight with the dog to keep it steady. My first timid blows barely honk. The dog lurches back, starting to drag me, and I repress this fountain of pain to blow with all my heart. The cry of the conkshell resonates like an earthquake in the moonlit desert.

I continue to blow, and the wind appears as rapidly as did the spirits in the saloon. I continue to blow and the dog's grip loosens, and I stare Cecil dead in the eyes.

In the dog's eyes I see the eyes of those who lent me advice during this strange journey. It all pours into me: the arrows of insight from five faces: the ferryman, the native, the ballerina, the girl, and now the dog... All reflections of the same face, the same lesson, the same river of meaning that now courses through my body. An oasis in the desert.

This is my gold, my El Dorado.

I continue to blow the conkshell's glorious cry across the moonlit dunes until the wind furiously throws it from my mouth. I stretch my arms out and let the gust take me.

***

A burst of icy water pours down on me from above. My arms are outstretched and I let the water run down my face. I manage to mutter a "thanks" to the source of the blessing.

"Oh thank god," says a man's voice, above me, "I thought you were gone."

I peel my eyes open a little. The figure above me is silhoetted against the backdrop of glaring noon in the desert. I close my eyes again, my mind reeling from a paralyzing headache and dehydration. My other senses are keen. I can hear the subtle buzz of desert motion and a car-engine a little ways off. I at first think that even this stranger is an illusion, but he pours more water upon me. No, I'm definitely somewhere real. Still, I don't recall water ever tasting this crisp, the desert smelling this fresh, or the small hum of sound so stirring.

I open and close my eyes until they adjust. The stranger is a middle-aged man with a bright face, dark pants, white shirt with sweat stains at the armpits. Despite the darkness of his form, I can see his eyes clearly. There is a wealth of humanity within. There comes a formidable sense of deja vu.

"Not quite gone," I manage at last.

"You need a ride somewhere?"

"I don't have anywhere to go."

"Well I'm not going to leave you in the desert."

"No?" I say. "Where are you headed?"

"L.A.," he says, and then, as if he needs an excuse, "For business."

"Funny thing," I say, struggling to my feet. I pitch back and he grabs me by the arm.

I finally stand, suddenly as sturdy as a tree trunk.

I take another look around at this stretch of painted desert. Just any stretch of highway down any stretch of desert in the southwest. I suppose it could be any stretch of desert with a highway everywhere. But this place, with the subtle brushes of pink across empty dunes and hums of life that are patient, not lush, strikes me as a wealth of experience that I could spend a lifetime understanding. Still, I've made it to the next stage of the journey. I ponder the stranger's destination.

"I swear, we're headed just the same direction."

He smiles wide.

"Great, you got your gear?"

I feel around in my pockets. All I can find is a gold half-dollar. I laugh.

"Fifty-cents," I say, "Fifty-cents get me much in L.A?"

"It'll get you going," he says, as if we share some secret understanding, before turning and heading towards his idling indigo sedan.

In memory, Mark Krasnoff, 1963-2006
Poem inspired by the truth, but not based on reality

Download Poem Read Aloud by Author (MP3)

You preached to me -- "Next time FEMA, send lube"
as your tongue spilled out black vile
"Truth," you said, "Ask
what's happening now,
not six months ago"

We all saw the water flood the streets
but we never saw the waterline's brown scar in every neighborhood

We saw houses torn, their innards strewn
across an untended battleground
but never saw the numbers dead
spraypainted on the shutters of our street

We never waited on hold for the insurance
company, our letters returned for months,
only to hear "There's nothing we can do"

We still believe that if the worst happens,
help will come

You were an explosion of the real
from the tide of humanity
that recedes now like the swampland
that once stood where the levees broke

You were a wild thing
caged in a poisoned city,
bursting forth in your ambition with something
no other actor dared wield -- the truth

From that unsturdy and muddy place
you saw too far

And so, one hot September night,
the brutal summer not yet a memory,
you headed to the banks of that eternal river,
wielding a bottle of bourbon and valium,
to lay back on the wet grass for one last look
at the dim stars

before sinking back
to the place of cottonmouths
and catfish
where you emerged.

Synopsis:

Guy who likes telling stories who's following his dream.

Worked up from the realm of podcasting to the front of the Wall Street Journal and gigs with the BBC. Doesn't think he's joking when he talks about a Radio Drama Revival.

Bio, the long story:

As he studied film in New Orleans he became entranced with the vibrant, melancholy, and exuberant local culture. Living in the Faubourg Marigny neighborhood, he completed an independent project on the street culture of New Orleans.

After Hurricane Katrina, Fred returned to Maine feeling like he still had a lot to say about his adopted and beloved city. These ideas coalesced into his first radio drama (and senior thesis), Day of the Dead. Day of the Dead was released in May 2006, the same month Fred graduated USM with a BA in Media Studies with University Honors.

Having found his calling in radio drama, Fred continues to produce his own short stories and those of other fine writers as FinalRune Productions (see Why FinalRune? if you want the story on the name). He now applies on-location recording principles similar to what he learned in film school to audio drama.

Fred's pursuits to master the craft have brought him to the National Audio Theatre Festivals' week-long workshop in 2007, and then in 2009 to Ireland to visit his friend and mentor Roger Gregg. He has studied audio engineering with Dave Moulton at the University of Maine Augusta and taught sound design and radio drama at his alma mater, the University of Southern Maine.

With the publication of a front-page Wall Street Journal Article on February 25, 2010, FinalRune's work has been catapulted into the national spotlight. His current major endeavor is writing, funding and producing his original speculative fiction serial, The Cleansed.

Outside of his work with FinalRune, Fred is the online marketing manager at Maine solar power installer ReVision Energy. He lives on an off-grid homestead in rural Maine.

Audio Credits

• 2011
  Writer/Director/Producer: The Cleansed: Season 1
• 2010
  Writer/Director/Producer - The Cleansed: Pilot, The Troll of Stony Brook, Joe Gunther Audio Pilot
  Director - Live Radio Drama and Bean Supper, USM Theater Dept. Radio Drama Collaboration
  Sound Designer - Severed Threads for BBC Radio 4
• 2009
  Writer/Director/Producer - Begathon Shorts
  Director/Producer - Mad Horse OTR Project, Live Halloween Radio Show
• 2008
  Writer/Director/Producer - Waiting for a Window
• 2007
  Writer/Director/Producer - Fall of the Hero, Begathon Special
  Director/Producer - Tales from Williamsville
• 2006
  Writer/Director/Producer - Day of the Dead, The Blind Man's Confession

Awards

2010 Golden Mini Disc Award - Best Writing - The War on Poverty
• 2008 Gold Ogle Award for Best Fantasy Audio Drama - Waiting for a Window

Writing

• Some Road through the Desert
• Day of the Dead – The Fiction Story (Part 2 of 2)
• Day of the Dead – The Fiction Story (Part 1 of 2)

Poems

• I’m not religious, but
• Song of a Cajun

• February 15, 2010 - "Return With Us to the Thrilling Days Of Yesteryear - Via the Internet." - A4, Wall Street Journal - View online or Download Article PDF)
• April 24, 2007 - "The podcast's the thing to revive radio drama,” The Guardian, - View online, or Download Article (PDF)

Local/Regional Press:

• October 21, 2011 - "Maine-based Director Resurrects Audio Drama on New Stage: The Internet" - MPBN - Audio story, listen online
• October 17, 2011 - "Spooky sounds: North Dam is site of Halloween radio drama recording" - Journal Tribune
• October 19, 2010 - "WKIT to premier Mainer's horror radio play" - Bangor Daily News - View online, or Download Article (PDF)
• May 7, 2010 - "Alfred man at leading edge of radio drama's online revival" - Bangor Daily News - View online, or Download Article (PDF)
• March 17, 2010 - "Solar Powered Mind Movies" - Machias Valley Observer - Download Article (PDF)
• March 10, 2010 - "Making radio waves: Alfred man gets exposure for his audio dramas" - Current Publishing - View online, or Portland Press Herald - Download Article (PDF)

Speaking/Interview Appearances:

• October 27, 2010 - “Severed Threads: From Downtown Manhattan to Suburban Minneapolis” - BBC Radio 4 Blog
• July 1, 2010 - Upstage, CKUT in Montreal, guest and debut of Troll of Stony Brook
• March 25, 2010 - MyTechnologyLawyer Radio Show; Scott interviews Radio Drama producer Fred Greenhalgh - Archive Link or MP3 Download
• October 12, 2009 - Guest on The SFFaudio Podcast #039 - http://www.sffaudio.com/?p=12027
• September 27, 2008 - "Low Budget Podcast Production," Guest on Small Business Website Mailbag - http://www.jimdegerstrom.com/podcast/2008/09/low-budget-podcast-production.html
• October 31, 2007 - "Halloween Special," Guest on Portland Press Herald's NXT Generation Podcast - http://pressherald.mainetoday.com/blog/blogs/nxt-next-generation/the-nxt-halloween-special

Our News:

• October 12 - FinalRune and AuralStage Studios Join Up for 2nd Annual Transcontinental Terror
• August 19 - Announcing: The Cleansed, Season One
• July 15 - RØDE Microphones Signs On to Support The Cleansed
• July 04 - THE CLEANSED wins Silver Mark Time Award!
• May 19 - Rode NT-4 + Rode Blimp = Love
• March 29 - Get FinalRune Stories on Your Amazon Cloud Player!
• March 20 - FinalRune Hosts Night of Apocalyptic Audio at Coffee by Design
• February 23 - Night of Apocalyptic Audio March 4 at Coffee by Design
• January 12 - Remaster of “Dark Passenger” Now Available
• January 01 - New Site Launches for Season One of The Cleansed

The Mad Horse Theatre Company and FinalRune Productions will present a night of BEAN SUPPER and LIVE RADIO DRAMA on Saturday, February 27, at Mad Horse headquarters, 24 Mosher St, South Portland, ME (Map).

The evening, running from 5-7PM (show at 6), promises the fare of a traditional New England bean supper followed by a series of plays performed in the style of old time radio of the 40s and 50s.

Programming will be a mix of new and old, featuring a riff on the classic Sorry, Wrong Number (With Christine Marshall returning as Mrs. Stevenson) entitled "Sorry, Wrong Cell Phone" and Waiting for a Window, written by FinalRune’s director Fred Greenhalgh, and winner of the 2008 Gold Ogle Award for fantasy audio drama.

Originally recorded on-location in South Portland and other locations in the Greater Portland area, Waiting for a Window has been revised to take advantage of live performance.

Dubbed a “nautical version of Waiting for Godot” by the SFF Audio blog, Window tells the story of Norman, a waylaid sailor who washes up on a strange island where no one ever wants to leave.

Admission is by donation, with a suggested donation of $10 at the door. Seating is first-come, first-serve, with a capacity of 50.

Here's an example of some stuff behind the scenes:

See the rest on YouTube or on our Halloween video footage page.

Cast and Crew Interviews - Halloween 2009 Radio

Interviews with cast and crew of the FinalRune Live Radio Drama show, Halloween 2009.

Live Sound Effects Demo - Halloween 2009 Radio Drama

A chat with the sound effects artists performing at FinalRune Live Radio Drama show, Halloween 2009.

Behind the Scenes - Halloween 2009 Radio Drama

Behind the scenes view of cast and crew at FinalRune Live Radio Drama show, Halloween 2009.

Roles:

• Live Sound Effects - Live Halloween Radio Drama 2009

Paul Drinan is a founding member of several radio theater companies including Portland Radio Theater and the critically acclaimed Rocky Coast Radio Theater and has been a guest artist with Minds Eye Productions.

Paul has performed on stage, screen and even in fields. While acting in New York, Paul studied with Jodie McClintock, Terry Schreiber and Patsy Rodenberg.

Paul is also a sound effects virtuoso, and joined us in our inaugural live Halloween radio drama in 2009 as the lead sound effects artist. His responsibilities included the creaky doors and floors in an old house, screaming souls in hell, ghosts plunging up from underneath frozen lakes, and zombies devouring human flesh (and being beaten into bits with a bayonet).

Roles:

• Announcer, Lost Souls, Joseph- Live Halloween Radio Drama 2009

John has a long and varied theatre hictory. On stage he has appeared as Henry Higgins,George Bernard Shaw,and Harold Hill among others. He has worked extensively with Madhorse and has provided the narration for two MPBN Emmy award winning documentary series, "Quest" and "Maine Experience."

He joined us as the spooky master of ceremonies for our inaugural live Halloween radio drama in 2009.

Roles:

• Mrs. Stevenson - Sorry, Wrong Number
• Colleen, Woman, Sally - Live Halloween Radio Drama 2009

Christine Louise Marshall is the Artistic Director of the Mad Horse Theater Company. She first joined FinalRune in the unforgettable role of the bedridden neurotic Mrs. Stevenson in the re-creation of the radio classic, Sorry Wrong Number.

Christine rejoined us in the live Halloween radio drama in multiple roles - the pushy Irish-American writer, a sassy woman in a New Orleans bar, and a frightened woman trapped in a car battered by zombies.

In her theater life, Christine has been seen most recently in the role of Mrs. Lincott in "The History Boys" and has directed and acted in numerous shows for Mad Horse. She is known to work hard - and not even for the money.

Roles:

• Believer Woman - The Cleansed, Season 1
• Nurse 2 - Intensive Care
• Trolette - The Troll of Stony Brook
• Ghost Woman, Genevere, Helen, Member of Crowd - Live Halloween Radio Drama 2009

Janice had hauntingly grand opportunity to get all spooky on the radio for our 2009 live Halloween radio drama. She recently appeared in Good Theater’s Light Up the Sky and as Sarah Orne Jewett in Carolyn Gage’s Deep Haven.

As a company member of AIRE, her favorite roles include Nellie Nora in Eclipsed, Margaret in The Grand O’Neal, and Chrissy in Dancing at Lughnasa. She also appeared as Gila in Mad Horse Theater Company's Dark Night production of One for the Road and will be in their upcoming production of Dead Man’s Cell Phone.

• Whitney - The Most Dangerous Game
• Chief Operator and Cop - Sorry, Wrong Number
• Jean - Three Skeleton Key
• Lots - Live Halloween Radio Drama 2009

Burke is a proud member of the Mad Horse Theater Company where he has been in such productions as "Of Mice and Men" (Lenny), "Joe Egg" (Freddy), and the annual staged reading of "Dracula" (Dracula).

This September, he provided voices for the three classic radio thrillers: "The Most Dangerous Game", "Sorry, Wrong Number", and "Three Skeleton Key." Burke rejoined FinalRune for multiple roles in our 2009 Live Halloween Radio Show, including the male ghost, the tortured blues man, a drunk ice fisherman, an annoyed customer service rep, and a blood thirsty zombie corporal.