FLASH

My horoscope for today: VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22) Do some writing. Once you let go and let the words flow, the process is enthralling.

Just in time for another writing contest at Jason Evan’s The Clarity of Night. All you need to do is create a 250-word story based on the photograph to the right. There are cash prizes and no entry fee, which is a rarity in these harsh economic times. Watch for an announcement at his site for the submission window period.

My interest in flash-fiction hasn’t waned. A majority of what I read from on-line literary magazines is flash stories. It’s the most difficult art form to pull off (besides poetry). I hope to see you at the competition.

Recommended flash-fiction: Taco Foot by Jack Pendarvis. Where else can you find a flash-fiction story told in 3 chapters?

Also, if you're really in the writing groove, check-out the Motor City Burning Press website (click on logo) for submission information.

CHARACTERS

I wish I could come up with some original characters of my own, characters with real voices (the gravellier the better), characters with physical limitations who beat insurmountable odds and make the reader all warm and fuzzy inside. I’m not sure I can do this, or should I say, I’m not sure the composite sketches I’ve drawn lately are satisfactory. I’m basing most of my research on listening, on ear-hustling.

In the prison lunchroom the other day, the Horticulture instructor and one-time Institutional Maintenance teacher (aka Mopology educator) talked about a one-legged student buffing the hallway floors. “Spun him around like a top.” He said it as if he were reporting the news with the utmost objectivity, with no inflection in his voice. “The buffer knocked him on his ass a few times.” Someone asked for a name. I’m not sure he remembered the student’s actual name and if he did, I must’ve forgotten it. “The other prisoners,” he replied, “called him Kickstand.” No empathy in prison.

In today’s photo, my brother and I are proudly sitting on my Dad’s BSA while he takes our picture. Do you see how I arrived here? Why I’ve chosen this pic? I’m the little guy in front.

WHEN TO CATCH A STORY

Gamblers will tell you about their winnings; As if the lever they’re pulling serves one function and one function only: It opens a secret door to their money trough. "I’m going to the Motor City Casino after my shift," the conversation starts. I needn’t remind my one coworker about how she’d been held hostage on her last visit when someone called in a fake bomb threat.

As for me, I’d rather set foot on my Dad’s Starcraft boat, or at least cast a line from shore into the murky waters below. "I’m going fishing after work," my conversation starts. And like my fellow gamblers, you’re sure to hear stories about that big whale-of-a-fish that nearly got away. And if he did get away, well then, he just got bigger—"I was up by six hundred dollars before my luck had changed." How else do you soften your losses?

On a similar note, my wife’s been gearing up for her garden tour, and like most Master Gardeners, she’s tending to extra plants that’ll be free to a good home. Near our shed, in the direct sun, are four plastic dish pans filled with water plants. To our surprise, baby goldfish had inhabited the same area. "I remember," my Dad says, recalling his youth as he taps on the goldfish bowl, "having to clean the eaves on our farmhouse and finding minnows swimming around." He says this as if it were an every day natural occurrence. He needn’t explain how they got up there. I jot this down in my notebook for future use in a story.

PRISON GRADUATION 2009

I'm not quite sure how I got roped into it, probably because I'm an "Old Head,” and even though I received a 4.0 grade in my college public speaking course, I certainly didn't volunteer for the task. I couldn't duck-n-dodge the Master of Ceremonies duty for this year's prison graduation. We had approximately 140 people in attendance, including Jeff Gerritt, a Detroit Free Press columnist. He was our keynote speaker offering words of wisdom to approximately 100 inmates.

With my back against the wall, with no room to maneuver, I agreed to MC; I did it under the following conditions: Get me an interview and photo op with Jeff Gerritt. Make it front page material. Also, allow me the freedom to give my opinions without censorship by the Michigan Department of Corrections.

Were my demands met? Nope. I guess I wanted too much. Still, the graduation went as smooth and silky as the skin on a baby catfish.

The highlight of the event: One of the GED Graduates, bloated and crazy from all his psychotropic meds, did as I had suggested in our rehearsal. "Mr. T," he reminded me, "remember to remove your rubber bands before stepping up to the podium.”

Thank you, Inmate Brown!

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WHAT REALLY STINKS

I’m puzzled as to why I can never place in the top three at the annual Bayport, Michigan, Good Ole’ Boys Cat Fish Tournament. My wife is quick to point out that it shouldn’t matter as long as I had fun. "Besides," she minimizes, "’Catfish’ is one word and ‘Olay’ is a skin moisturizer." I’ve been hearing this for years, or whenever I wear the latest tournament ball cap around the yard. It’s a consolation prize; everybody gets one for entering the competition. I paid for it—fifty bucks—so I might as well wear the damn thing. (Side note: Should I ask my wife if "ball cap" is a compound word?)

Anyway, I’ve tried all kinds of stink bait. I’ve packaged sun-ripened chicken liver in small strips of panty hose. I’ve smeared garlic & cheese paste on small plastic plugs with embedded hooks. I’ve injected night crawlers with store bought pheromones (makes them swell-up to twice their original size and gives them sex appeal). None of these methods has worked. This time I bought leeches at $2.99 per dozen because Billy P. (who places year after year) uses them. He didn’t fair as well this time, no prize money. Still, my hat goes off to him; he hauled in bigger fish and I’m sure he wasn’t as prepared as past years considering he’s running on batteries thanks to a recent heart-attack. Did he not use leeches? I’m not sure. What I do know is that baiting the hook isn’t easy when the leech is latched to your skin.

I’m home now. My neighbor leans against the fence. "How’d the fishing tournament go?" He’s originally from down south. He considers me a Yankee. He knows how I’ll answer; it’s the same damn response. I give him the weights of the top three fish. I’m sure he’s unimpressed. "What really stinks," I say, "is having to go back to work." He loves every minute of it. He’s retired. I wonder if he uses skin moisturizer after a hard day of gardening. Maybe I should ask him. But I won't.

WHEN A SUBURBANITE SUFFERS

There’s decay in the Motor City; it’s in the roots of my teeth,
stuck like taffy, I gnaw and pull at the yellow tape. There’s
fencing too, down the south side of a dead-end street—a factory
caught in my braces, Everywhere: foreclosed homes and empty
lots, worse than unfilled cavities. I gum Better Mades and dream
of a stimulus package in a brown paper bag placed on the console
of my Chevy. Whiskey and Vernors, for medicinal purposes,
me traveling, no tires, just cement blocks and fragmite. Pain too,
in my jaw, raw raw pain, a telling sign that I’m alive. I step into a
blacktop oven and smile my jagged smile and scale the chain link
fence and yell to my fellow Detroiters, “We must organize!”






Logo contest here! Winner gets $50.

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Congrats to George Dila for his second place finish in Literal-Latte's short story contest!

LOSING CREDIBILITY: A QUEST FOR CHANGE

I never really think about it—the routines set forth in my medium security classroom. I just roll with it. I’m certainly not influenced by the status quo. Prisoner management, to me anyway, is like chaos theory: Chaos breeds order and vice-versa. Prison life, if you really think about it, is all about routine; Upset that balance, that state of equilibrium, and there’s bound to be a fall-out. What comes afterward is more of the same: Routine.

I don’t know why, but for some reason I always give the absence slips to the older black tutor, and he, in turn, walks the long corridor and drops it off on the officer’s podium. My students never say anything about it, and this tutor delivers with his usual aplomb.

One day, without thinking of the repercussions, I gave the absence slip to a young white tutor. Why not? It’s part of his job description too. Besides, the older black tutor is heavily engaged in a crossword puzzle. Next thing I know, a young black gang-banger with adjustment issues is vocalizing his displeasure. “You’re a rat,” he announces to the white tutor upon his return. “How ‘bout some cheese, Rat.”

I warn him about the inappropriateness of his comments.

“He’s a snitch,” he continues.

I try to reason with him. “Look,” I say, “you never had a problem when Mr. Terrance ran the slip up front.”

He makes no allowances, “They’re all a bunch of rats.”

I make no allowances: I throw his ass out and drop him from my roster.

A day later he’s at my classroom doorstep. “I see the judge in two weeks and if he finds out that I’m not in school …” he stares at the floor, at his feet “…What I’m trying to say is: Can I come back?”

I think about it for a hot second. “Not a problem. Here.” I hand him an absence slip.

He holds it like it’s a piece of rotten, stinky cheese. And why shouldn’t he? His mellow’s on it. The tutors and I chuckle. “I’m not sure he’s up for the job,” Mr. Terrance says.

Now he has to prove himself. Sure enough, by the time he gets to the end of corridor, he’s changing his mind. He re-enters my classroom, places the slip on my desk and says, “I can’t do it.”

“That’s what I get for sending a kid to do a man’s job,” I say loud enough for the whole class to hear. “Kick rocks.”

“You’re all a bunch of rats,” he yells on his way out.

YOUNG SHOELESS JOE

Let’s call him Shoeless Joe—you’ll discover why—a young prisoner learning how to do his time. I’ve had to warn him over and over and over: Quit screwing around. Stay focused. "This is not sixth grade camp," I say. "This is prison. You’re not here to make friends."

He laughs.

“These guys will do you, I mean really really do you,” I add.

Shoeless Joe refuses to listen, refuses to take my advice. He wants to argue instead. He thinks he has game. I give him my Eddie Haskell, tell-it-like-it-is, in-your-face, reality-check, “Back when I started with the department you were shitting in your diaper. In fact, you still got milk on your breath.”

Shoeless Joe gets angry. I don’t know, maybe he thinks I’m his camp counselor, maybe he thinks I’ll serve him graham crackers and milk, and burp him afterward. “You’re no game player,” he tells me. Most teachers aren’t, but if that’s what needs to be done to teach him a lesson, then so be it.

One day I observe Shoeless Joe concealing something in his shirt. Without implicating myself for violating a certain policy, because I would never do that, implicate myself, I confiscate a size nine state shoe. I know it isn’t his—he’s wearing his state shoes. He begs me to give it back because he lent his gym shoes to another inmate and took the man’s state shoes as collateral. Shoeless Joe ain’t got no game. He has no way of retrieving what was once his.

“What am I gonna do?” he asks.

“Deal with it,” I say, “Playa.” He looks dejected. “Maybe you can do a one shoe trade.”

FIGHTING CANCER WITH BATS

I am a survivor of cancer (10 years and counting) and like you, I am not dead. In fact, I’ve got plenty of fight left in me.

Last weekend I participated in a Relay for Life Fundraiser at the local high school. It didn’t go as planned. Teenagers sporting hunters-orange sheriff’s vests stood near strategically placed cones; their mission: Allow only “Regional Baseball” participants and their fans entrance to the empty school parking lot and no one else.

We had a van loaded with fundraiser baskets and the nearest parking lot was unaccessible. We explained our situation, emphasizing “drop off only.” “Sorry,” we were told, “you need to use the other parking lot near the high school pool.” This didn’t make sense. Why would we unload from a distance farther away? We parked our van across the street in a friend’s driveway and made our way toward the Relay for Life area. The Baseball Gestapo informed my wife and me that we could not walk across their reserved parking lot. Again, this made absolutely no sense. Were they concerned that we’d get hit by a foul ball? That we would die that instant? I doubt it. I kept my cool even though I had visions of driving my van over their cones and yelling out the window, “I guess baseball’s more important than finding a cure for cancer!”

On a positive note, our booth raised the most money. In the above picture are some of the survivors, including a dear friend diagnosed with breast cancer eight months ago.

PUNKSHOOASHUN & GRRRHAMMER

Have you ever heard of the agentless writer who converted a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel into a double-spaced manuscript, changed the author’s name to his, created a new title, and sent it to 20 or so publishers? He kept track of the numerous rejections, including one from the book’s actual publisher, as well as those that never responded. One small house in Florida did offer a contract, but he knew better than to accept. The name of the book: The Yearling.

I first read about this incident in Jeff Herman’s Writer’s Guide to Book Editors, Publishers, and Literary Agents. Although I’m not actively pursuing an agent, I often think of this scenario when receiving rejection letters and emails. I’ve never submitted a book-length manuscript—I’m not sure I could go the distance, preferring short-stories, flash fiction, and the occasional nonfiction piece instead. I guess the rejections are much more tolerable knowing that I haven’t wasted too much time on a writing project.

This brings me to the following rejection email from Matt McGee, the editor of Falling Star Magazine. After being informed that my story made it to the editorial review board and after waiting approximately three months, here’s the final message:

JR,

Thank you for your submission on our theme “Hide Your Love Away.” Rather than send along a simple rejection notice, I thought you & your writing may benefit from reading what one of our editors had to say about the work.

Re: Ruth Mondo

This is a very interesting characterization with a somewhat hopeless protagonist who is incredibly strong and resilient. It needs work; serious work in terms of making the sequence easier to follow. Stream of consciousness stories are often like that because they sometimes exhibit broken synapses of the mind.

First of all, I would strongly encourage this author to rewrite for accuracy and refinement and then point out where he might start; punctuation would be a good place because it is not merely a “refinement” or a “convention”. Instead, it is a need of the flow. Without a doubt, there are images and moments in which there is very sensitive pathos.

In a word, I like this a lot even though it cries for rewrite.

My response: None.
Wait: … Thanks, Anonymous Reader/Editor.