MORE COWBOY CONFLICT

Happy Halloween!

HALLOWEEN SPECIAL

REFLECTING FORWARD

There’s another hip on-line lit journal called Matchbook that I admire (read it here). If they accept a flash-fiction piece for publication, they request a critique of sorts, some type of insight into the writing process. As I hold out hope for “Cocoon Man,” I reflect on what I believe is its significance. Here are my thoughts:

My wife’s into scrapbooking. She sticky-tapes family pictures into expensive albums, dresses them up, makes them visually appealing. In “Cocoon Man,” I try to do the opposite. I take a snapshot in time, something from that slim rectangular window of life and try to make it uglier. I dress it down. I examine its anorexic body. I focus on the blemish. I make that blemish fester and grow on skeletal remains.

I don’t think a story can have a lasting impression on its readers unless they’re made to feel uneasy—at least flash fiction anyway, where the plot needs to develop quickly. So why not challenge the reader in the beginning? Why not ask a series of questions that will present the conflict and setting as well as place the reader in an uncomfortable situation.

Forget Hallmark. Forget Norman Rockwell paintings. Let’s have guts, let’s show an exposed foot, and let’s have blatant lies and infidelity and manipulative behavior.

“Cocoon Man” is stripped down to these barebone essentials. The reader, like a moth flying into the flames, is drawn to the light, to its origins, to those initial questions. As for resolution of conflict—what of it? There’s no fancy gift-wrapped packages here to open. There’s no expensive ribbon to untie. And if there were? You wouldn’t be able to see beyond the beauty, beyond the presentation, and that’s not what I’m aiming for.

HERE IN A FLASH, GONE IN A FLASH

I’m still a novice when it comes to writing and reading flash fiction. It’s definitely an art form suitable for the internet. You can focus on the backlit words without straining your eyes for long lengths of time, and there’s not much scrolling to break your concentration.

Some of my written flashes have come to me relatively quick, the words spilling onto the page; whereas, others have tormented me for days. I’ve been submitting various pieces to my favorite on-line literary journals—not much luck there. One story in particular has raised a few eyebrows. Here’s the latest “favorable rejection”:

Hi JR,

Thanks for submitting “Cocoon Man.” Unfortunately, we’re going to pass. This was an exceptionally difficult decision for us because we liked so much about the piece (the ominous atmosphere, the back and forth dialogue between the characters, the haunting details), but something about it didn’t resonate as much as we hoped it would.

We really want to read more, though, so please keep sending stories our way.

Best,
Matt

How cool it that? I’ll keep writing, reading, trying. I strongly recommend http://www.staccatofiction.com/. They publish a new flash fiction piece every 4 or 5 days. And their stories really are that good.

REALITY CHECK

On Wednesday, as I walked past the hallway podium where prisoners' IDs are checked, I heard Officer Milk Dud say into the phone, “Yeah, he got his Mickey blowed out.” I picked up my daily call-out report (a list of inmates I will see for the day) and headed straight for my classroom. I knew not to expect an emailed explanation or debriefing regarding the staff assault.

From what I’ve heard, Officer Milk Dud became our hero, saving the day from a convict-punk who sucker-punched a teacher. Another corrections officer described it like this: “He (Milk Dud) tore off his shirt and a big ‘S’ appeared.” I chuckled a bit, but soon realized that any one of us could be assaulted at any given time, or worse—murdered. In eighteen years (knock on wood) I’ve remained relatively safe. No punches thrown my way; Never been pushed; Only the occasional verbal threats.

Prison employees are such a rare breed. We laugh and joke about those close calls as if it’ll bring us closer together. Although this may be a false assumption, we're reminded of the risk we take in dealing with prisoners. A good day at work is a day when you make it out, when you’re in your car and driving home to your loved ones.

Officer Milk Dud knows I have a history of talking sharp to the inmates. He reminds me about my orthodontics, about all that money I have invested in my mouth. “Protect your teeth,” he says. I smile a bit, my rubber bands adding tension to my jaw. “I’ll try,” I tell him. “I’ll try.”

IF BIRTHPLACE MATTERS ...

Maybe it’s just me, but it seems inherently wrong for a convicted murderer to run for Detroit City Council. You could argue that he paid for his crime, that he did twelve years for killing a man, however, if a foreign born citizen cannot lead our country, cannot become our President, then it stands to reason that Raphael Johnson should not have an opportunity to run for city council. Yet here he is campaigning.

I’ve talked about Johnson in the past, and perhaps I was a bit envious of his accomplishments: Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees from the University of Detroit Mercy, successful businessman, and speaker and author (how many times does he have to be on Maury Povich?), however, after learning more about his upbringing, I’m convinced that he would’ve been successful regardless of his crime. Prior to his conviction he attended the University of Detroit Jesuit High School on a scholarship, and before his trial he graduated with a 3.6 GPA at Cass Tech High School.

From my experiences as a correctional educator, a person of this caliber wouldn’t fit the typical prisoner mold. He says he’ll curb violence in Detroit by trimming back large trees that block the street lights. He says he’ll continue talking to our youth about making bad choices. His platform includes creating a task force that will reach out to at-risk teens—not that he was ever “at-risk.” He never grew up on the wrong side of the tracks; instead, he elected to go there.

You can’t choose where you were born, but you can make choices later on in life as to where you want to be. In Johnson’s case, he returned to a party with a gun and shot a 40-year old man to death. Hopefully he will not get elected to the council. The citizens need to take a stand.

STEWED

I’ve dealt with all kinds of misguided anger over the years (where students simmer, waiting for those inevitable triggers to boil over); I keep a lid on it.

“My last teacher,” a new student says, “was enthused about teaching.”

He’s sitting in the front row, eyes the size of saucer cups, tattooed forearms: fallen pillars, one on each side of a mathematics competency exam I placed in front of him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“Are you passionate about teaching?”

Perhaps he’s crying for help.

“My last teacher at Muskegon,” he continues, “loves his job.”

“Good for him. What’s his name?”

“Selbig.”

“Selbig’s a woman.”

“Sir, you’re mistaken. Selbig’s a man.”

Now I know he’s a loon. After class I pull his school file (just in case he gave me the wrong name)—sure enough, his last teacher was Selbig. Ann Selbig. Female.

A week later, he’s still working on the same fifty-problem test; He’s on number ten. His brain’s stuck in the mud, spinning on perfectionism. His meaty guardrails protect his paper. I’ve already helped him on basic fractions and assigned him a fractions book; He refuses to do it. He thinks he’s mastered fractions.

“My last student,” I comment, “was enthused about learning. Are you enthused about learning?”

He’s rubbing the middle of his forehead with his knuckles, circling, circling, circling; his face looks like an overripe tomato. He’s left a bruise.

I end my sarcasm.

DECORATIVE DRIFTWOOD

The following numbers are for a work in progress, a flash fiction piece titled, “Getting out From Under a Rock”:

Readability Statistics:

Words – 100
Paragraphs – 9
Sentences – 11
Passive Sentences – 0%
Flesch Reading Ease – 68.0%
Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level - 6.1

I’m sending my prose to the Driftwood, formerly known as The Driftwood Review. They’re looking for 100-word stories for an upcoming “Earth” themed issue. Twenty pieces will be chosen and you must be from Michigan.

Heck, I’m from Michigan. Do you think a scenario involving an undercover convict trying to get his cellmate to mention where he buried the bodies, qualifies as “Earth” themed? I hope so.

For the website click: Ludington Writers.

EXIT CONVERSATION

Our exit conversation went from whether the Detroit Tigers would get rained out to whether the ambulance near healthcare would interfere with us leaving at our regular scheduled time. Some state employees had brought umbrellas for protection against the drizzle, but the sun had poked through the clouds, radiating its warmth on our backs.

By the time we reached the Administration Building, I asked a custody staff person about the ambulance. Turns out, two of my students were involved in an altercation; or to be more direct, an assault occurred.

“From what I gather,” my informant said, “Prisoner B. stabbed Prisoner E. in the ear with a piece of metal and sliced him downward along the jaw-line. B. thrives on violence. E. was holding his face together and blood was going everywhere.”

A maintenance worker, corrections officer, and sergeant, focused on finding the weapon, passed us, heading in the opposite direction toward the crime scene area.

As I write this from the comfort of my home and reflect, I’m remembering that part of our exit conversation regarding umbrellas, how those metal-extension rods would make great shanks.