Where have all the years gone? I need to concentrate on a lengthier writing project, perhaps a novel. I've been thinking about it since 1983 when Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli autographed her debut novel for me. Wish me luck.

Also, thanks for all those encouraging words. Have a happy and safe New Year.

Cheers!

ANIMA & ANIMUS

“The animus is the deposit, as it were, of all woman’s ancestral experiences of man—and not only that, he (man) is also a creative and procreative being, not in the sense of masculine creativity, but in the sense that he brings forth something we might call … the spermatic word.”
—Anima & Animus, Carl Jung’s Collected Works

“What we women have to overcome in our relation to the animus is not pride but lack of self-confidence and the resistance of inertia. For us, it is not as though we had to demean ourselves, but as if we had to lift ourselves (up).”
—Animus & Animal, Emma Jung, Carl’s wife.

After I wrote three quick flashes (“Animus,” “Cocoon Man,” and “Still Life in Detroit”) and muddled through the edits, my classroom tutor, a thirty-year member of the National Lifer’s Association, someone who confided in me that during movies he occasionally bursts into tears for no apparent reason, perused each flash and ranked them accordingly. When he picked “Animus” as his personal favorite, I asked for a reason. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say “beats me,” but after a moment of reflection he said, “It’s different … unique … sort of odd, yet understandable. Nature, you know, is one of life's great mysteries.” He did not offer to elaborate beyond that and I knew not to ask for more.

“Animus” is posted at Staccato.  If you’d like to leave a comment regarding the story, please do so at their website; in fact, I’d greatly appreciate it. Also, there are forty-four previous stories worth examining, with a new one appearing every three or four days—a treasure trove of interesting material.

Thanks for reading—in advance.

RIGHT HAND CLUBBING

Dale,
I haven't heard back from you regarding "The Trigger Man and his Accomplice," so I decided to take the bull by the horns and do a rewrite (see RTF attachment).

I hope it's the right fit for Left Handing Waving. I've also attached a JPEG file for your convenience.

In closing, I'd like to say that my favorite piece (so far) is by CL Bledsoe. Keep up the good work.

Sincerely, JR

*****

John,
I'm sorry I didn't get back to you.

I showed this to the other 2 editors and I'm afraid we just can't use it. Thanks for trying (twice!)

Dale

*****

Dale,

Name's JR, or Jim, or James, but not John. I'll keep an eye on LHW, see if I can come up with something better.

Thanks, JR

LEFT HAND DRINKING

Attention Dale:

Attached in RTF format is my story, "The Trigger Man & His Accomplice." I hope you will consider it for Left Hand Waving.

Sincerely, JR

*****

Hi JR,

Thanks for submitting. We've had a look at the story (and the photo). We can't use it as it is but I wonder if you'd consider a rewrite and resubmission. One of my greatest weaknesses as an editor, and there are many, is providing direction on rewrites, but I'm going to give it a shot, because we like the story and love the addition of the photo. Interested?

Dale

*****

Hey Dale,

I was a bit hesitant in sending this piece because my left hand isn't waving in the photo, so any advice on a rewrite or tidbits of what you're thinking would be greatly appreciated. Tell me what you did or didn't like about the piece (working with prisoners, I can take the criticism) and I'll try an edit.

Thanks, JR

*****

I absolutely love Right Hand Pointing and their sister publication, Left Hand Waving. So why am I waiting … waiting … waiting, I think it's still my move. *BTW, this isn't the picture.

A SMALL CORRESPONDENCE

After the rejection of “Cocoon Man,” I decided to try Staccato Fiction again. Here is my correspondence with the editor:

Matt,

I absolutely loved the voice in "Whatever Happened to Sue Ellen?" One of my favorites so far. You know you're picking good stories when other writers are envious.

I humbly submit "Animus" and hope you will consider it.

Thanks in advance,
JR

*****

JR-

We absolutely loved "Animus" and would be thrilled to publish it on Staccato. Is it still available? If so, can you send a short bio?

Also, I hope you won't be offended if we suggest a small editorial change: the name "Old Man Baker" sounds a bit out of place here and reminds us of old episodes of "Lassie." Would you consider changing it to Mr. Baker? It's a small objection, but in an otherwise pitch-perfect story, I think it really jumps out.

Let me know what you think.

Best,
Matt
Staccatofiction.com/

*****

Matt,

You just made my day. I love the layout of Staccato Fiction, as well as the stories. Also, you are absolutely correct on the editorial changes.

Incidentally, Staccato was my first and only choice for "Animus," and it would be an honor to have my story on your website.

Sincerely,
JR

THE SOMEWHERE ELSE HOME

JR,

First, thanks so much for sending us "Cocoon Man." After a healthy discussion, we have decided to pass on it. Know that we both agreed the story is efficient, tightly wound, and all the details and dialogue work toward the ending. We worried about the story lacking a wider or heavier sense of implication. There is the "descent while she watches from above" - which one might describe as an allusion to the archetypal circles of hell, which in turn are a consequence of sin, which in this story pertains to the threat of adultery - but it might arrive too loosely at the end. It is clear you know what you're doing as a writer, but in the end, it just wasn't a fit for us. We wish you the best of luck finding a home for it elsewhere. We're confident you will.

Sincerely,

The Editors
-----------------
Previous blog posts:
Reflecting Forward
Here in a Flash, Gone in a Flash

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.

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.

Why I don't think I would be a good father/husband at this point in time

Not often—Hell, who am I fooling? Never before… at least not like this—I’ll get a GED Essay that tugs at thee ol’ heart strings. Most prisoners prefer the bland essay format of topic sentence, supporting statements and conclusion told without conviction or emotional honesty. What you’re about to read is based on the following question: Discuss an opinion you once held that has now changed. Without further introduction (and slightly edited) here’s one prisoner’s narrative essay:

At one time I wanted kids. I had a little girl and I loved her with all my heart. We would do things together. Although she was only 4 years old when she died, she was my life. I didn’t realize until I had lost her in a car accident how much I’d miss her. She and my wife were hit by a drunk driver coming home from a family reunion that I was supposed to attend, but didn’t.

After her death, my wife and I did not get along. We were fighting all the time. I guess I fell out of love with her.

Over a period of time, I just didn’t want the hassle, I just didn’t want to invest my energy in our marriage. I didn’t want kids any more. I just couldn’t handle it all.

I wanted to be by myself and do what I wanted to do and without the hassles. What I had always wanted in life I found out I did not want anymore. Now I’m happy I have no one, which is better for me in the long run because I’m messed up myself.

IN THE MIND OF RUSSELL SLEVKOVITCH

His name is Russell Slevkovitch. As a young man, he did a brief stint in a correctional facility. If you were to question him about it, he’d tell you he served time in the name of Jesus Christ our Savior. He would sprinkle it with a few “Hallelujahs” and “Praise the Lords.” He’d say, “God gave me a second chance.”

Two decades earlier, after his parole, he'd meet a young girl, take a liking to her, and force her into his rusty van. He'd show her his Biblical tattoo and quote scripture. He'd say, “We’re destined to be together. You and me.” He'd wipe away her tears with his meaty hands and promise not to hurt her. Over the years he'd provide her with food and shelter; He'd have sex with her regularly; He'd even bathe and clothe her.

A few years after her abduction, she'd bear him a child. He'd preach about the God Almighty, how their special bond was a gift from Him, how through the Lord’s work they were able to produce a beautiful baby girl.

Russell Slevkovitch never doubted his actions. He believed he had a positive influence on the inexperienced mother. “Do not wander beyond this fence, beyond these hedges,” he'd often say. “There are evil forces out there.” She, in turn, did her best to watch over their child, to make sure she did not slip into the valley of darkness.

The days rolled into weeks, the weeks rolled into months, the months rolled into years. The midday sun, in its infinite brightness, offered very little in the way of guidance — that is, until Russell Slevkovitch refocused his attention on their lovely preteen daughter.

Physically, escaping consisted of squeezing through the bushes, scaling a relatively small fence, and yelling for help; but mentally, mother and daughter doubted their efforts. Luckily, at that instant, a passerby rescued them.

The only saving grace about this whole ordeal is that Russell Slevkovitch is make believe, he’s fictional; yet, he’s out there every time a pedophile is released from prison. He’s out there preying upon innocent children. It’s our job to make sure that he’s put away for life. No more chances, no more victims, no more Russell Slevkovitches.

WHAT YOU'RE UP AGAINST

I sometimes think it’s easier to write a novel if you don’t know what you’re up against. Our correctional facilities are full of such people; they have nothing but time.

But it also helps when you’re encouraged to pursue your dreams, regardless of your predicament...

It doesn’t matter that you killed your best friend, rolled her up in a rug and dumped her body two counties away. You were sixteen. Your life careened out of control when you left your home at the age of twelve—not that your home life was a Norman Rockwell painting. Injecting heroine at an early age, sharing needles with your mother, undoubtedly steered you down that path of disturbing wrong.

A female corrections officer (whom I met not too long ago) had encouraged you to keep writing. It did not matter that you were involved in a 100 million dollar lawsuit against the State of Michigan for the sexual abuse of female prisoners, it did not matter to this female corrections officer that some of her peers would lose their jobs (even when she didn’t know whether they were guilty or innocent). She became your surrogate mother. She took an interest in you. In return, you acknowledged her.

In 2006, Triple Crown Publications accepted and published your book. Whether you or your daughter see any money from the settlement is not important. Sure, it would be nice to have the money, to help your daughter lead a better life, but what really matters is that the profits from your book, the fruits of your labor, will go to your daughter. I’m sure she’s proud of your accomplishment.

ANOTHER MANUSCRIPT

Once again an inmate has plunked down a handwritten manuscript for me to read. He’s a self-admitted crack-head doing time for murder.

“This is dope,” he says. His swollen tongue droops from his toothless mouth. “You gotta read it.”



I tell him as politely as I can that I’m not interested. He leaves it on my desk anyway and takes his place amongst the row of prisoners working on their computer assignments.

There was a time when he wasn’t allowed to attend classes in our building. The healthcare professionals advised against it due to his prescribed medications. Our department created a class inside his cellblock, but for reasons unknown (“That teacher,” he told me, “was a real motherfucker.”) they decided certain individuals would be allowed to come to the school building instead. I think he likes working on the computers, a luxury he didn’t have in his housing unit. He’s steadily clanging away on the keyboards and pointing and clicking the mouse.

At the end of class I try to ignore him; I’m hoping to sneak his manuscript into his student folder when he’s not looking. His brain isn’t always firing on all cylinders.

“Did you read it?” he asks.

“No.”

“I’ll get it from you tomorrow.”

So I perused ten handwritten pages and found something mildly entertaining:

Boyfriend Skeet made her take off all her clothes in front of everybody so that made me feel sorry for her. I told her come on we jumped in my Cadillac and I took her shopping. I bought her bra, panties, stockings, shoes, coats, hats and a diamond ring. That was my Baby now.

Strange assortment of purchases - from undergarments to accessories to marriage proposal. At least he showed some compassion during their courtship (I think).

TIMELINE FICTION

MIXED BLESSINGS

1987: Hospital delivers Dudley (hidden complications).
1990: Dudley disappears.
1995: He's on milk cartons.
2002: His body's exhumed. DNA matches parents. Funeral.
Today: Numerous sightings.


I'm not sure whether "Mixed Blessings" fits the Hint Fiction category. It does meet the 25-word limit. How about Clue Fiction, or better still Timeline Fiction?

Some may argue that it's not a story at all, that it doesn't fit the criteria. Your thoughts?

VAMPIRISM & CONSUMERISM

In my younger days I was a long distance runner. I knew how to put my head into a race and finish. It’s different now. I no longer run (jarred a few too many kidney stones loose) and although I have clear goals in mind - it’s for something I never intended doing in the first place: retiring from a career as a convict teacher. The road ahead is long, if not risky, but I’m determined to complete my working-stiff-career.

This brings me to the following point:

It amazes me how Jaye Wells can take a 250-word story and turn it into a fantasy/horror novel complete with vampires, demons, faeries & mages. In fact, she got a three book deal out of it. For me, after a story is complete, the words stop flowing and I go back to studying my UAW calendar, counting the years and months until it’s mathematically possible for me to retire, to do something different, to perhaps write something more than a short-story or flash-fiction piece.

Enough sadness.

I just finished Wells’ novel “Red-Headed Stepchild.” She did exactly what I’ve never been able to do. She turned her flash-fiction story into a novel. I’ve read a few vampire books in my day—David Sosnowski’s “Vamped,” Elizabeth Kostova’s “The Historian,” and Anne Rice’s “Interview with a Vampire.” Each novel had a different take on vampires. Wells’ interpretation, although very much different than the others, reminds me somewhat of Sosnowski.

From “Vamped” in regards to the Benevolent Vampire Society:

Our motto was pure hubris: “There’s a sucker born every minute.” The problem was, the closer we came to making that true, the more obvious it became that we were the real suckers. “Normal” meant “tamer.” Vampirism became … domesticated. Industrialized. Commercialized. The hunt for victims and benefactors was replaced by the sorts of jobs we thought we left behind. We had to work for a living again—or after-living, as the case may be.

His vampires went grocery shopping for name-brand plasma. His vampires were easily identifiable because of their human consumerism traits.

Wells uses human beings as backdrops for feeding time. However, Sosnowski’s main vampire character decides to adopt a human girl, which in turn means becoming a responsible parent. It’s an interesting premise, especially when she becomes a teenager and starts dating vampire boys.

In Wells’ book, the main vampire character, Sabina Kane, is an assassin of mixed blood. She’s caught between her two races: vampires and mages.

It’s funny how Sosnowski takes a domesticated approach to vampire life, while Wells depicts warring factors fighting for world dominance. What I find most interesting in Wells’ novel is the vineyards, how the blood of mages is propagated for its magical powers.

Who wouldn’t purchase a drink that makes them stronger? I’d chug it before I hit the checkout line.

Maybe I should shop for an agent. See if I can turn a flash into more than a dash. What do you think? It’s not like I’m going to quit my prison job any time soon.

HOW A POEM LEADS TO MURDER

I hadn’t read the poem “My Brother Killing My Brother” in years—2004 to be exact. The Detroit poet said he had no idea it would apply to U.S. soldiers. I guess timing is everything when it comes to publishing.

I brought the poem inside a correctional facility, its true meaning hidden within the pages of a now defunct literary journal, a meaning soon to be stretched within the confines of three concertina-wired fences and neighboring gun towers.

“I know this poet’s brother!” the classroom tutor says, chuckles. He parks his wheelchair near my desk.

I have a confession to make: I’m not passionate enough about poetry, unless, of course, it’s confessional poets validating their words through extreme measures. Still, I listen.

The tutor tells me how the poet’s brother pummeled a man with a baseball bat, how the poet’s brother didn’t know his victim, how the cops discovered the poet’s brother sleeping in a field not too far from the car he’d left idling on the shoulder of the road, how that car idled until it ran out of gas. “James,” the tutor remarks, “blacked out. The cops woke him up. He hadn’t a clue about what he’d done.” More laughter.

Of course I have no way of substantiating any of this; I have the words of a prisoner confined to a wheelchair.

I study the words, I stop at the subtitle: (in a series of poems denouncing violence). I read about images of exposed brain: tofu in Merlot sauce, feta cheese & beet juice on a salad of sticky hair, white chips of shattered skull…

I’m mesmerized by the words, by the totality of it all. And I’m a bit shocked as well. I feel like a detective assessing the crime scene. Who is this Detroit poet in question? I read parts of the byline: Joseph Ferrari, business owner of Leadfoot Press. If I wanted to know more, I’d contact the poet. I’d start by asking, “Do you have a brother?” Not that I need to—the poem has done its job, the poem is that good.

IN SEARCH OF ...

I want the truth. That’s what it came down to. Not writing style. Not subject matter. Not even character. Just “Truth”—its complexity, its many facets. It didn’t matter whether the fictional characters knew about the truth, discovered it, stumbled upon it, or were killed by it—that’s not what I was searching for—what mattered is how I discovered or accepted that “Truth.”

I’m talking about my top five picks for the Reader’s Choice award at Jason Evan’s Clarity of Night’s “Truth in Wine” contest.

Ironically, my personal favorite, “Vintage” by Jimmie Vee did not make my top five. I desperately tried to justify why it should be my number one pick; however, the discovery of “Truth” rang hollow. Oh sure, I loved the writing style. I loved the story. I certainly could identify with Tripp as he admired his wine bottle, as he drank from it and discovered the wine’s vinegary taste; unfortunately, his deliberate actions did not meet my acceptance of “Truth”. Maybe it was the return of his smile, how it meant an acknowledgment that Vivian had died over nothing, her accusatory voice silenced forever. He felt perfectly comfortable with the outcome. He’ll remain an abuser, a murderer. But to not show disappointment over the wine’s vinegary taste after admiring its contents is to show an absence of “Truth.”

I could go on and on—there were so many excellent entries—but to do so would not change my mind regarding my top five picks. My list includes stories involving female coworkers whose differences blossom, an ex-Vichy accepting his fate once presented with a vial of poison, a young couple's romantic encounter in a barn while their country becomes involved in war, the intimacy between objects after a glass of wine is spilled, and an illegal immigrant’s longing for his homeland, a country he ran away from. Without further ado (and without explanation) here are my top five picks in descending order:

Five: "Exit Strategy" by Angelique H. Caffrey
Four: "Judgment Day" by Peter Dudley
Three: "Truth in Wine" by Bebo
Two: "Intimacy" by Precie
One: "Moussa's Stop" by Dottie Camptown

*Footnote: I posted this after the Reader’s Choice deadline so as not to influence others.

TOO MUCH WINE & TRUTH SPEAKS

I’ve been reading all those “In Vino Veritas (Truth in Wine)” short fiction entries at Jason Evan’s Clarity of Night and leaving comments. Funny thing is, the writer of one of my favorite flashes (so far) had to defend his story from what I thought was a compliment.

Here’s what I said: I must admit, the way your main character was examining the bottle, I had a feeling it would be used as a weapon. Still, the descriptions were very well done.

His response: JR, I’m sorry to hear that working in a prison environment all these years has traumatized you to the point that you expect anything taken up in hand will likely be used as a weapon (although it is certainly understandable). I don’t feel the climax was so obviously laid out for the “general population” reader. Nonetheless, I do appreciate your and everyone else’s comments.

Hmmm… from the tone of his response, I’m not sure he appreciated my comment—that is, unless he wants to invite me over for a glass of wine. I’ll leave it at that. I encourage everyone to read his story (it really is that good). Click here.

Oh, and if you haven’t read my flash, here’s the link:

The Sober Truth about Tyler & Zachary on Bickerstaff Street.

LOST, FOUND & CLARITY OF NIGHT

Another happy childhood memory, another “Young Author’s Award” (1973), and another disturbing page from a much larger work. Perhaps Julie (see her comment on July 8th’s post) has a valid point—I’m beginning to see and hear the poetry; the words are jumping off the prison stationary.









There’s no need for commentary here, but if you’d like to read my flash fiction story, “The Sober Truth about Tyler & Zachary on Bickerstaff Street” then "X" marks the spot. Also, as the competition “wines” down (deliberate spelling, pun intended), I’ll give you the links to my favorites.

LOST & FOUND

I threw out my high school diploma years ago; curbed it with the regular trash. I’m not sure why I had done this.

—Why did the ancient mariner shoot the albatross?
—Why not?
—Because it was there.

I was pleasantly surprised when I discovered a “Young Author’s Award” tucked between the pages of a book I’d read long ago (James Dickey). It’s those things that we don’t readily see that end up surviving. I won this award two years in a row, 6th and 7th grade, and attended a Young Writers’ Conference at Malow Junior High School. What did I write about? Beats me. What I do know is that thirty-five years later and I have yet to attend another writing conference. Most of my stories are workshopped amongst the felons I teach.

On a different note, when I showed this certificate to my brother, he recalled Principal Cunningham’s daughter. When we were both in college, he dated her for a short period of time. Her first name escapes us.

As for the second, fairly current document written on prisoner stationery, it’s the misplaced work of a delusional individual. This is part of a much larger work that he is trying to get published. I wonder how long it will take before he discovers that his masterpiece is incomplete. Perhaps the story is so disjointed that it shouldn’t take away from his brilliance. I will say this: most of his time and energy is devoted to his art.