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.

LOST IN THE WORDS AND DETAILS

We were watching the 6 o’clock news, my wife and I, when she suddenly asked, “Do you know the reason behind the name?” She was referring to the five-year old girl everyone was searching for.

We’d been following the latest developments: the mom who met her boyfriend at a probation and parole office. Burglar meets sex offender, respectively—only in Michigan. He was in direct violation of his parole for associating with someone that has a child. Back to jail he went.

Investigators found children’s toys in his hotel room and a bloody knife. But the plot thickens. Mom’s van was on loan from another sex offender. Had she been too trusting? Or too stupid? Did she give a shit? What world is she living in? What kind of world are we living in?

Still, I didn’t know the reason behind the five-year old girl’s name. “Nevaeh,” I mispronounced.

“It spells heaven backward,” my wife said.

*** Latest Development ***

Last night’s 11 o’clock news informed us that Nevaeh was at the Lord Willing Campground the day before her disappearance and that the blood on the knife wasn’t hers.

LOW TECH MANUFACTURING IN DETROIT

I discovered the following video footage while cleaning my basement (see below). If my memory serves me correct, I narrated this piece in 1989. My wife might argue that it’s from the early 90’s. I do know this much: the company secretary operated the camcorder. She and I started dating a few months prior, even though I vowed never to mix pleasure with work. Three years later we married. She might argue that it was at least one year prior and four years later. We have our differences.

As for the video content: It’s a "How To" piece on making locker mirrors; something I knew all to well, having manufactured them for five years. My lines were not rehearsed, nor did I really care that much considering it was an assignment for an Instructional Media Class at Madonna College in Livonia, Michigan. In my opinion, a majority of the education courses were, and still are, a waste of time and money. I did what needed to be done in order to get my teaching certificate, that’s all that mattered.

I didn’t have too many fond memories of college, especially that IM Class. I remember standing around a film projector waiting for my turn to demonstrate that I could thread the film properly without damaging the equipment. I remember thinking, Isn’t that what those nerdy high school AV kids are for? Still, I kept my mouth shut and went through the motions, not knowing that my future students would do most of their learning the good old fashion way: a book, a pencil, and a sheet of paper.

It’s amazing how much junk I’ve accumulated over the years. I’m having difficulty letting go of the past, but each week an extra garbage bag full of videotapes, cassettes, books, and papers are dropped off at the curb. It’s like shedding an old skin; I should’ve been doing this all along.

MORE ...

Yesterday morning, after one sip of hazelnut coffee, I unfurled the Detroit Free Press and read the front-page headline: Freed Felons, How Safe Are We? The article did not surprise me, nor did I question its objectivity. But I immediately grew suspicious because of the accompanying photograph. Why is it that all of a sudden journalists and photographers have easy access inside Michigan’s prisons? What happened to the media ban? Not that I ever agreed with a media ban.

Perhaps it was lifted a long time ago. Perhaps after Dr. Kevorkian, aka Dr. Death, was credited with time served and let go. Perhaps the Michigan Department of Corrections was forced to lift the ban after all those complaints from female prisoners. I’m not always on top of the latest news or policies - that’s for sure. For instance, one time a corrections officer questioned me regarding my multipurpose pocketknife. “The blade’s under two-inches,” I said, proud of myself for knowing the criteria. Unfortunately the policy had changed to “absolutely no knife of any kind.”

The intent for carrying a pocketknife had nothing to do with protection, and I certainly wasn’t going to loan it to an inmate. Once in awhile I’d unfold the mini-scissors to cut paper. As for yesterday’s article, I’m not sure of its intent. Inform the public? I guess so. Scare folks? Maybe.

One last thing: the photograph’s setting, if I were to take an educated guess, is in one of my old classrooms at Ryan Correctional Facility, Detroit. Which classroom I’m not sure—I taught in four different areas after various critical incidences, two of which I’ll never forget: the escape of ten inmates and the sexual assault on a female teacher. These are just added facts and not meant to sway public opinion. I’m certainly not saving any money through my words and actions.

SOME THINGS NEVER LEAVE YOU

Across the street, where the ditch was filled, my neighbor waters his seeded lawn. I look downward, into the new culvert. “Water table must be high.”

He says, “Yes,” notices the run-off, and moves his garden hose to another spot. “Summer’s finally here. You got any plans?”

“No. Not really,” I answer. He’s a civilian worker, an electrician at Selfridge Air National Guard Base. I ask, “How ‘bout you?”

“No. I’m looking forward to retirement in a few years.”

I don’t speak to my neighbors that often—opting to keep my distance with a friendly wave. Our conversation seems strained. I’ve been meaning to ask him about someone. I figure now is as good a time as any. “Do you know a guy named H?”

I have his attention. He says, “He worked for me. Good worker too.” He turns off the nozzle on the garden hose. “I never knew he was that way. We had a complaint from a female worker claiming that he was stalking her, but nothing really came of it.”

I tell him that yeah, he’s a good worker, tutored for me, helped the other inmates with their school work. “Whatever he did,” I add, “must’ve been extremely violent.”

My neighbor knows more about it than I do. “He raped his niece while on vacation up north. Never saw him again.”

Our conversation doesn’t last much longer. He goes back to watering his grass, and I return to my property. We’re minding our own business, like good neighbors do.

Rick Michael, my union rep, speaks out regarding the early release of Michigan prisoners.

SMALL TALK BEFORE THE WEEKEND

I don’t care how much money Jay-Z has, or how much Fifty Cents is worth, or whether Eminem is the better rapper. I don’t care about how Lil’ Kim got railroaded on Dancing With the Stars, or how sizzling-hot she looked in those sequin outfits. I don’t care about your previous sexual escapades or how you “hit a lick” at some liquor store on Six Mile. Obviously you care about these things because it’s all you talk about during GED Class. Sometimes you’re so passionate, so serious with your music, t.v. shows, and sports, that you disrupt the entire class to argue your point.

So why are you angry when I post the GED testing schedule and you discover that you’re not on the list? Why the concern now? If you really cared about finishing school you would shut your pie-hole and do the assigned work. My answer to your question,“Why ain’t I testing?” has never wavered: “It’s not important to you.”

Don’t act shocked. Your actions dictate my reaction, my explanation. Pick up a book once in awhile. They got words in them. Words lead to knowledge. Do a little schoolwork now and then. My perception will not change overnight, but if you continue to do the right thing (instead of shucking and jiving and posturing and talking about how many points LeBron James scored the other night) I’ll probably give you a shot at qualifying for the GED Exams. Until then, you got absolutely nothing coming to you. Your choice. Not mine. Think about. Choose. In the meantime, I’m going home to enjoy my weekend.

BACKYARD KITCHEN

Am I to stop what I’m doing when the neighbors power wash their Little Tikes Kitchen Set with all its accessories? Should I tell them ex post facto that it’s okay to line their plastic “Made-in-China” toys along my wooden fence to dry? I guess it doesn’t really matter; I’ve been looking at their Toys-R-Us collection all winter long, so why not “temporarily” encroach on my property? I should be comfortable with it by now: The previous neighbors parked a boat and trailer on my lawn without asking for permission. After they moved I hopped the fence and did a little celebratory “hot tubbing.” Unfortunately, the new neighbors did not repair it; instead, they hauled it away.

So I’m jabbing my Ryobi weed whacker (“Made-in-Canada”) along the fence-line and I guess I’m throwing a little grass and dirt here and there—it’s bound to happen no matter how careful I am—and the neighbor lady’s screaming for her husband to move their precious junk off my lawn. He, in turn, scrambles to please her. Am I sorry? Yeah, sure … for him.

With Memorial weekend fast approaching and warm weather forecasted, I’ll do some swimming in my pool, cook a few burgers and perhaps converse with this young couple across the chain link fence. It’s the neighborly thing to do. Anything is better than dealing with mentally disturbed prisoners; I just hope my neighbors can deal with me.

OBSERVATION

What do you do with a guy who won’t come out of his cell? What do you do when you make your rounds, peer into that slim rectangular window, and see a single empty bed with a semi-exposed mattress? Do you lengthen your routine beyond the usual intervals? Your partner draws nearer, squeezing her face into that same rectangular frame. She asks, “Do you see how the blankets are pulled in?” You nod yes. She tells you about another man who cuts himself open and pulls out his intestines. But this guy’s different; they call him the Cocoon Man. He’s in there, in the mattress, in his safe place where he relieves himself, where he sleeps. He’ll come out occasionally when he’s hungry.

What do you do? What does anyone do?

They keep him in prison. They feed him. They give him a foam mattress.

NO ID BADGE REQUIRED

When the Palace of Auburn Hills first opened, my wife (whom I did not know of at that time) was directed not to let anyone into the arena without the proper ID badge. She dutifully obliged. “You’re going to laugh,” she told me a few years afterward.

Detroit’s Bad Boys were winning NBA Championships (back to back) and she and I were dating (The Locker Room / Pizza & Pitcher of Beer or The Shamrock Pub / Burgers & Beer). I reminded her that a concierge needn’t be as concerned about security as, well you know, those Burns Security Guards.

“Are you kidding?” she asked, before recalling a NBA player’s gun incident in the parking lot (Dennis Rodman). “Besides,” she confessed, “I knew the basketball players because of their height.”

“So why am I going to laugh?”

She went on to described an older, more sophisticated gentleman, real slick, how he thought he’d waltz right by without flashing the appropriate credentials. She thought he might have been an autograph seeker. Turned out it was Chuck Daly, the Detroit Piston’s basketball coach; I chuckled. An ID badge isn't necessary to gain entrance into Heaven; May he rest in peace.

As for identification, I received a gold-plated nametag last week with the following engraved message “I make a difference.” Also, since it was staff appreciation week, I was given a free grilled hamburger for lunch and six days off without pay.

THOUGHTS

Stopping is the easy part for me. I’m not really conscious of it—saying nothing, writing nothing—it just happens. I’m not exactly paralyzed by it either. I don’t feel any outward pressure forcing me to do what I both enjoy and hate. I don’t feel the need to beat myself up over it. When the time presents itself, I’ll take advantage of it.

Lately I’ve been having difficulty constructing simple sentences, starting ideas. When you’re a jack-of-all-trades, master-of-nothing, your mind flits about, I think of all kinds of stories, yet I remain silent.

I’ll admit: I’m good at endings, but not so good at beginnings. It’s reaching that fugal state of mind that I miss. I need to become someone else, someone whose actions are deliberate, carefully planned, a confident person who knows the road he’s traveling on. But I’m not moving. I’m stagnant. Life’s funny that way.

My brother and sister-in-law are leaving Michigan (like so many others). It won’t happen overnight. They’ll need to sell their house and its furnishings. You can’t take everything across the Atlantic Ocean. I wish them well. There’s no telling when I’ll see them again.

As for me, I’ll stay put. I’ve already chopped up three book cases and tossed them to the curb. I have a garage full of novels and short story collections that’ll more than likely be thrown out as well. I’m thinking of renting a jackhammer and busting up the concrete floor in my basement. I even drew a diagram showing what I’ll replace the broken drain tiles with. I hate my leaky basement, but I love my home. I have no intentions of going anywhere, except for the occasional fishing trip.

THE STORY

This is not my story to tell; if it were, I’d start with closing time at the local Chicken Shack and the lone worker mopping up. I’d warn my readers of the early release of thousands of inmates and how this lone worker should’ve known better then to leave the back door of the restaurant unlocked. I’d build up to that moment of uncertainty where a man walks into the back entrance of the Chicken Shack...

But this isn’t my story to tell, a story I’d first heard this past weekend when the narrator stepped up to the microphone and in a barely audible voice told everyone she was looking for a sign, any sign, that everything would be okay. I wasn’t in the same room as her; in fact, I was in a room just outside where she spoke. I’ll not forget that moment either. I, along with everyone else, needed to hear her voice, needed her reassurance, just as much as she needed a sign, any sign, that everything would be okay. She had our attention the moment her breath hit the microphone. Silence swept over the place as we waited to hear her speak.

The man at the back door, the one who took the lone worker by surprise, was her husband. She and her high school daughter waited in the car. Their daughter, tired and hungry, had made the following request: “Mom, would it be okay if we stop at the Chicken Shack?” It was 9:15 p.m. and they hadn’t had dinner. The man, the father, walked into the back of the restaurant and spoke, “I know you’re closed,” he said to the lone worker with the mop, “but I just lost my son. My wife and daughter and I just came from the funeral home. Do you have any leftover chicken?”

They fed their daughter that night, thanks to the kindness of one lone worker at the local Chicken Shack. I, along with so many others, was fortunate enough to hear the mother's story the very next day.

There is kindness in this world, even during the saddest of times, even for a grieving mother who lost her son at the age of 24.

CONFUSION (or how he clung to the frog)

I had pulled the file (like I always do) in hopes of finding decent TABE scores, an indicator of reading, writing, and arithmetic grade level equivalencies. The new student had complained (like they always do) that he had a high school diploma, that he, of all people, needn’t waste his time nor take up space in my sad-ass-excuse-of-a-classroom. I let it slide, his comment (I always do), and reassured him of my commitment to “get to the bottom of this.”

The very next day, with thin file in hand, I showed him that yes, he indeed may have a high school diploma. “See,” I indicated, “your transcript. Says right here you graduated.”

He relaxed a bit, let the tension fall from his shoulders, reacting as if I had shit on myself, reiterating that he hadn’t been bullshitting and that he had heard how F’d Up our school is.

“Uh-oh,” I continued, giving him just enough time for his I’m-right-you're-wrong dog-and-pony show. “Houston we have problem.”

“What?”

“Your transcript doesn’t have the required amount of class credits needed for a high school diploma.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Your sorry-ass school made an error.” He was getting pissed. “It’s time you start studying for your GED. Have a seat.”

He scanned the classroom, looked at my students as if they were all victims. “Go ahead and write a ticket then, cause I’m not staying.” He slammed the door on the way out.

LIFE, DEATH

There’s this student of mine, an older convict, he sits in the back of the classroom, keeps to himself; he’s cheated death more than once. He survived a shotgun blast to his abdomen. He lifts his shirt, explains, “Shoot out with the police.” He used to drag race as well—illegally, on the streets of Detroit. His car careened out of control. “I lost my right-eye, broke my neck, C7 vertebrae, I had reconstructive surgery to my skull.” He smiles, a crooked, busted-jaw smile. “I was in a coma for two months.” He talks as if he’s proud of it all, as if he knows he’s blessed for beating such odds.

I’m not impressed. Should I be? He’s lucky to be alive … even if he is in prison.

***
There’s this family of four—husband, wife, son, and daughter—the nicest family you’ll ever meet. We consider them our friends; we’ve known them for seventeen years. Last Saturday they were preparing for their uncle’s funeral when the 24-year-old son complained of a headache. He stayed home while his Mom, Dad, and Sister went to pay their respects. He died that day. Peacefully. In his sleep. No guns blazing. No drag racing. Was it a hemorrhage? Was it bacterial meningitis? Who knows? There’ll be an autopsy.

We’re stunned. Everybody who knew him is stunned. Life, at this moment, doesn’t seem fair, doesn’t seem kind. Friday’s the wake. I’ll take the day off from work, pay my respect, fight my emotions … it won’t be easy … I’ll be wearing sunglasses.

FACING THE ROCK

These frogs are huddled together, facing the rock. And for good reason: The Screaming Toads have taken over.

"Oh my!" the neighbor lady says, "There goes the neighborhood."

But let's not get carried away. Let's just say the neighborhood's a changin'.

The prisoners shuffled their feet ever so slowly on the walkway, curious as to why a double-wide trailer had been delivered to the compound. Someone was busy extracting razor-sharp concertina-wire from the top of an interior fence so maintenance could remove a section and cut down a pole before one-half, then the other-half of the trailer could be parked in front of the mentally-ill prisoners' housing unit.

Rumor has turned into fact, has turned into truth. More deeply troubled, deeply disturbed, higher-security level inmates are coming our way. More healthcare professionals are needed. More office space is needed. This is a temporary fix.

While the work is in progress a corrections officer spreads false hope. "The trailer," she tells the inmates, "is for conjugal visits."

Sarcasm and the mentally-ill don't mix. Some prisoners don't know whether to believe this or not. They'll need time to reflect.

I'm at home, It's late. I can't sleep. I'm listening to the screaming toads outside my bedroom window. The weekend is almost over. It'll be back to the prison, back to the madness. I don't know why I'm thinking of it, but I'm wondering about those juice boxes, whether they'll be eliminated from the facility. From what I've heard, those sippy straws have become scaffolding, have become erector sets for some of the mentally-ill as they torture their way to pleasure.

GOD WANTS ME TO SIT

“Do you want your chair?”

That’s what I’d been asked as I pulled my fishing gear from the trunk of my car; It was a fold up chair tucked in a nylon-canvas bag. I had already pulled three fishing poles, the Taj-Mahal of tackle boxes, and a five-gallon bucket from the back seat. I had worked all day, was tired (more so mentally then physically) and hemmed-and-hawed about whether I should carry one more item a half-mile from the dead end street where I had parked to the fishing hole near the I-94 overpass. I certainly wouldn’t overburden my coworker with a luxury item that I alone would use. I knew I could lug it. Or not.

Here was my real dilemma: Do I fish standing up? Or do I fish sitting down? Do I use fishing lures, spinners, dancing baby eels? Or do I fish the bottom with a Carolina Rig and worms? And what about my telescopic fishing pole? — I’d use that with a bobber attached to the line. Definitely something I could watch from a sitting position. After a day of multi-tasking in a prison, you would think I’d choose one way to fish and stick with it. Hey, fishing’s supposed to be relaxing, however, in the back of my mind, if the fish were biting I would be standing, and if the fish weren’t biting, I’d be pacing back and forth wondering what to use, what to do next.

I knew the answer, it was based on my desire to increase my chances of catching fish—blue gills, perch, catfish, sheephead, dogfish, bass, pike, you name it—I’d put forth a monumental effort at reeling in a genuine, bonafide, whale-of-a-fish. I gave him the most logical answer I knew, “I’m going to skip the chair. I won’t be needing it.”

After two hours of catching absolutely nothing, my coworker hit a snag, and after tugging and pulling from every angle imaginable, he caught a #$&&@^* chair!!! We quit soon after that. I wasn’t about to sit down.

HOT CHOCOLATE & MICROWAVES

Once upon a time there was an 85-year-old woman who made a cup of hot chocolate for a neighbor because he was such a nice young man, always helping out around her house, always shoveling her driveway, doing nice things, such a wonderful wonderful young man. So she invited him into her home, served him hot chocolate, but her frail shaky hands couldn’t hold the cup steady enough and she accidentally spilled its contents. The young man, looking forward to warming up, didn’t take too kindly to having a hot liquid dumped on him so he beat her with his fists and he beat her and he beat her bad. Now he’s in prison for it. Let’s call him Prisoner H.C., short for Hot Chocolate.

I’ll get back to him.

Here’s the jump cut (you may start to laugh while reading this paragraph, but you won’t for long, in fact, now that I’ve warned you, you may not laugh at all): They sell petroleum jelly, or should I say lubricant? —No, no, no—let’s call it by its trademark name: They sell Vaseline in the men’s prison. It’s on the store list.

So is instant hot cocoa mix.

Before you jump to conclusions regarding a relationship between Big Bubba and the young man of our story, before you visualize him in a compromising position or think he deserves whatever’s coming his way for beating an 85-year-old woman to within an inch of her life, I’d like to talk about the dangers of microwaves. We have microwaves in the inmate housing units; something the MCO (Michigan Corrections Organization) has been trying to get removed for a long time now. Some prisoners, you see, mainly those with a history of assault, have been known to cook-up a mixture of Vaseline and water in their plastic coffee mugs. Several months ago a 49-year-old officer at Huron Valley Men’s Facility suffered 2nd degree burns to his face plus long-term damage to his eye from the deliberate actions of a cowardly inmate and his premeditated actions. Unfortunately, no one has made a decision on moving the microwaves out of the units.

Back to Prisoner H.C. - one of his peers, a fellow convict, someone who obviously knew why H.C. came to prison, someone who respects his elders, assaulted H.C. with a piping hot mixture of Vaseline and water. I can only imagine what the attacker said, “What’cha gonna do now, Bitch?”

I’ll bet the microwaves are history soon. What do you think?

CAFLISH DANCING

I’d like to buy a vowel … or two … or three. A few consonants wouldn’t hurt either. And for the price …“There is a charge, a very large charge,” Sylvia Plath …

...I should get a little extra something-something. How about a few numbers as well? Does anyone have Vanna Whites’ phone number, how I can get in touch with her? Not that I’m a stalker or anything. I haven’t oogled … spell check: googled … her—it’s just that I’m laying out my graphic design final, a slick Hawaiian Clothing Catalog and I can’t get the correct font on my computer. I need Caflish Script Pro. It’s priced at thirty-five smackaroos. If I’m going to unload that kind of cheddar I better damn well be entertained. Seriously, put me in the peanut crunching crowd, show me what you got. If it’s good, I mean really really good, I’ll come back for more. Closer, get a little closer, let me whisper in your ear: If I’m not satisfied with the purchase, can I get a refund?

BRICK, HOME

This might sound crazy, or you might think I’m crazy, but I’ve been staying away from myself. What I mean is: I’m distancing those mental images of who I am from my thoughts—my identity, how I see myself—those etched in stone markings dictated by what I’ve observed around me.

We’re like bricklayers, building our walls and I, like so many others, have surrounded myself. I’m too tired, too comfortable to tear down those walls. I’ll not step away from any rubble any time soon.

This week we had an immobilization. The siren whirred at the end of our shift. We were placed on lockdown. We followed protocol. I went to the school office. I read my email. The first email offered me a Costco membership at a discounted group rate. The second email informed me of a particular student’s STG status. (For those of you who don’t know: STG stands for “Security Threat Group.”) The email informed me that he’s a Vice-Lord and that with the Deputy Director’s approval, he can attend school; however, his out-of-cell movement will be limited to one hour per day. Currently he’s waiting for a verdict on a non-bondable ticket for stabbing another inmate. Rumor has it he stuck his friend, a fellow Vice-Lord who "supposedly" had a shank tucked in his waistband. As the story goes, they were horsing around when his friend “accidentally” stuck himself, or so he says “Cuz you don’t rat on nobody in here.”

Outside our prison, two men in a stolen car made a break for it. With the police hot on their tail, they turned off I-94 and into a golf course where they ditched the car and ran on foot. Little did they know they were running toward our ERT (Emergency Response Team). Our corrections officers were armed and ready. How’s that for irony? Two men trying to get away from the police, not wanting to be arrested, yet approaching what they did not desire.

Our immobilization didn’t last long. The men were apprehended. We were free to go. As for that Costco Membership, it wouldn’t do me any good. I don’t travel their way.

RAGS, WIDOWS & ORPHANS

Sounds like Dickens, doesn’t it?—Rags, Widows … Orphans.

My last post was meant to be looked at for its shape, its beauty, its style, and not so much for its content. Sorry Charles. Not Dickens! Gramlich! I never intended for you to read the jpegs. If so, I would’ve posted a PDF (which isn’t exactly the truth because I don’t know how to do that on Blogger). Because Lana's a visual artist—a painter, a photographer—she knew exactly what to do; call it my first public display of a layout design.

I’m still learning the intricacies of Adobe InDesign CS4. I’ve completed three-fourths of my graphic design class with an 89% average, or should I say: B+. Still, after perusing various on-line literary magazines, I think I can compete. Not that I’m planning on it. Too much work. Besides, there are some really dedicated editors out there.

So what’s a rag? A bad rag is that ugly shape created by the white space in your right margin; whereas, a good rag uses small increments of space, making the reader more comfortable with the written content (maybe this is why Charles decided to read). If you examine rags further, when the last line at the bottom of a paragraph or page contains only one word, it leaves way too much white space and distracts the reader. Not good typography at all. This is called a widow. Or is it an orphan? No, no, no … a widow leaves too much white space, and an orphan is a single word that makes a short line. I guess they go together; they leave too much white space.

Thank you for your patients, your tolerance.

IF I WERE A GRAPHIC DESIGNER / EDITOR

PITCH & CATCH

It’s easier using the fist-in-your-face approach instead of calmly explaining your position on a topic. How else do you make someone understand your point of view? How else do you get someone to commit to your beliefs? That’s how my students communicate. They feel getting louder and louder wins the argument; if it doesn’t, then a major ass-whipping is sure to follow.

In anger management, assault-offenders, and other self-help courses, the prisoners are instructed to write their way through various scenarios. By writing, or thinking through a situation, one would hope certain impulses would change. “Think before you react,” becomes the mantra—only one problem: the other guy; he might get a jump on you, he might enforce his own convictions. Still, it doesn’t hurt to try to change a few misguided souls, and hopefully Clockwork Orange will not be revisited.

I gave my students the following writing assignment: In 300 words or less, continue my story “Pitch” from the perspective of an inmate (in essence, put yourself into the situation). They knew this was a creative writing exercise and that I wouldn’t be diagnosing their problems based on what they wrote. Most of the stories I received did indeed have too much physical violence (I won’t divulge the numerous ways a teacher can be tortured); however, one story stood out from the rest. Without further ado:

“Catch” by I-Wish-To-Remain-Anonymous

I wouldn't let go of his wrist. He wouldn't listen to me.

He tells me I won’t get paroled if I keep this behavior up.

I tell him, “It’s too late, I’ll have LIFE once I get what I want.”

He asks, “So what’s your pitch?”

I laugh. “You think you got it all figured out.” I make my observation, “You know what goes on in the classroom, but you don’t know what happens out there on the yard … or in the cellblock.”

He asks me, “What are you getting at?”

“Let’s just say I’ve come face to face with pitches before. Sunglasses were my only option.”

He looks perplexed.

I reach back into the wastepaper basket and grab my butterscotch candy. I tell him, “You’re gonna wish you ate this, you quick-witted bastard.”

He tries to loosen my grip.

“Free is a contradiction,” I say. “Nothing in life is free. There’s always a catch. You have to pay a price for everything you do.”

REAL SCHOOL LEAVE

I took school leave to redefine myself, to reinforce the belief that I’m just as much a part of Michigan’s education system as the thousands of public school teachers armed with lesson plans. Prison teachers, you see, don’t “plan,” as much as “redirect.” We wield quarterly IEP’s (Individualized Education Plans), knowing damn well our students won’t follow a word we say. Still, a start’s a start and we do a lot of that—“starting.”

I have to remind myself that my teaching certificate is just as good, if not better than most certified teachers - even WITHOUT a Masters Degree in Educational Leadership. Too many chefs in the kitchen, too many bloated paychecks, and the diner, the consumer, ain’t consuming. But this isn’t about eating or salaries. This is about volunteering at a public middle school and gathering bags full of money—lunch money.

So I got caught up in the school’s penny wars, something The National Junior Honor Society sponsors to raise money for charity. The class with the most pennies wins an Olive Garden lunch. And it’s not just pennies collected—students chip away at their opponents’ penny total by tossing nickels, dimes, and quarters into their enemy’s coffers.

So I took the loot to a Coin Star, fed the machine, collected the receipts, then reported back to the principal’s office. Regardless of the results, here are a few of my observations: 1) the resource and special education classes didn’t collect much, probably due to class size, 2) their coins were caked in mud or foreign or Windsor Casino / Chuck E.Cheese tokens, and 3) I was not afforded the opportunity to interact with the teachers or students.

Overall, I enjoyed my day.

READING "PITCH"

IT'S WHAT I'VE STEPPED INTO

I suppose I’m like most working stiffs, happy to be employed, doing a job that I never in a million years dreamt about doing. On occasion I’ll hear people say, “I love my work. I love my job.” These are the people I love to hate. Call it envy.

When is the so-called awakening? When does one realize their special calling or talent? Without getting all religious on anyone, I’ve found times where I think I’ve stepped into my element, found my niche; then I have those days when reality sinks in, where self-discovery comes in the form of shit caked onto the waffle-bottom of my shoe.

I’ve often defined myself as a convict teacher, much to the chagrin of The Walking Man and others. In fact, TWM thinks I shouldn’t limit my self-identity; we are, after all, multi-dimensional, not cardboard cut-out characters. I know he’s right. The way I see it: I spend the majority of my waking hours inside a correctional facility supervising prisoners. It’s what I’d like to think I’m good at. It’s also what I write about most of the time. It’s what I’ve stepped into.

Twenty-some years ago, I met a fellow college student in an Early American Literature Course. We became friends, if only for a short time. She went her way. I went mine. She had an undying passion for Victorian literature and continued her studies in Illinois, earning a master degree and PhD. She also wrote a book in her area of expertise. I haven’t spoken to her in decades. I sometimes wonder if she had any missteps along the way; I seriously doubt it; I’d have a hard time believing it. Check out her YouTube video.

As for me, I’ll continue my journey, not knowing whether I’m headed in the right direction but knowing that it’s the people I meet along the way, it’s what keeps me plodding along.

READ THIS

Working in a prison school, in an assembly-line style of educational instruction—make them do the work and send them down the line—you develop a certain callousness, a certain uncaring attitude, after all, the student population is a malleable, unstatic mess; it’s dirt swept under the administrator’s rug. Old students leave; new students arrive. Keep them moving. Keep pushing that broom.

I need a bigger broom.

When I process Prisoner Walker’s enrollment papers, documenting that he has “officially” started my class, I tell him, “I need your John Hancock.”

The inmate standing to his immediate right helps out. He says, “Where my thumb is.”

Mr. Walker scrawls his name across the document.

I continue. “Mr. Walker,” I say, “I’m going to add a statement to this report. Don’t get offended, I’m not a doctor, I can’t make the diagnosis, but I’m going to write: Student appears to be blind. He wears dark sunglasses and is aided by a cane and guide.”

Two days later I pull his school file. I discover a copied email from a Health Care Supervisor stating that Mr. Walker is indeed legally blind and will not be able to participate in school unless accommodations are provided.

Did I miss a staff meeting? Can someone please tell me where we keep our Braille? Or did Mr. Walker have some kind of cornea transplant and is playing me for a fool?

I've truly seen it all.

BUYING FEMININE DOUCHE

When there’s a family emergency the night before my midterm and I’m instructed to buy feminine douche—males are perfectly capable of using the self-checkout I’m told—I immediately cringe. “What if someone I know sees me?” There’s no time for argument. I’m off the hook … kind of … with a compromise. “Let’s go together,” I suggest.

My wife steps out of the half-bath, slides the pocket-door closed. “Hang in there baby,” she says. “We’ll be right back.”

We purchase two packets, Country Flower and Vinegar and Water, eight douche bags total. And even though we do use the self-checkout, a female Kroger employee—who happened to see us entering through the exit door—gives us one of those Why-is-this-couple-buying-feminine-douche (AND ONLY FEMININE DOUCHE) at-11:30 PM-on-a-Friday-night look. Why can’t it wait?

I avoid her stare. My wife, on the other hand, feels the need to explain. “Our dog got sprayed by a skunk and our veterinarian said this was the best way to get rid of the smell.”

I’m happy to report that I did okay on my midterm, that our dog is as fresh as a the premature spring breeze, and that our house reeks something awful.

SHINY HAPPY PEOPLE

Prisoner F has a metal plate in his head, a once busted orbital bone, a prosthetic eye, and a permanent smile. But don’t let his upturned mouth fool you—Car accident, he explains. You can hear the sadness in his voice.

He hates me, or not so much me, but what I represent. I’m an authority figure. I’m his gateway to a minimal education. I’m Mr. Follow-the-Policy. “Do your school work,” I say, eliciting such canned responses as “school sucks,” followed by traditional chest-thumping rituals and banter. I continue, “Keep it up. I got something for you.” I ball-up my hands.

“You can’t box,” he says. He rises from his chair.

I step to his right side, out of his periscope view and take a few slow short swings at the air. The students are amused.

“You got jokes,” he says.

On one rare occasion when he actually turned in an assignment, I inked it up, made it bleed real bad, and quickly dumped it back on his desk. “You know,” he said, “would it hurt you to praise your students once in awhile?”

“What do you want,” I asked, “a gold star?”

“Yeah,” he said.

I drew a smiley face at the top of his paper. I started with the mouth, enclosed it with a circle, then dotted it once and walked away.

He laughed. His permanent smile must’ve meant something, must’ve had meaning. The other students crowded around his desk to see what I had done. “That’s just plain wrong,” someone said, but all of them were laughing, all of them were giving him the attention he so desperately wanted.

UNPUBLISHING

I tried warning JR and that little wife of his. “Don’t go to the nursing home, the stomach flu’s incubating there, searching for new hosts.” They wouldn’t listen. He’s at Meijer’s right now, waiting for their prescriptions.

He wanted to be here to discuss the merits of on-line publishing. I’ll do that for him; I’ll summarize what’s going on. Two on-line editors (HTML Giant and Thieves Jargon ) had a misunderstanding. One thing led to another, until Blake Butler (HTML Giant) found himself “unpublished” at Thieves Jargon. As a side note, JR’s been “unpublished” himself when a certain on-line magazine severed his link like Lorena Bobbitt.

Anyway, here’s the whole enchilada regarding these two editors and the pro’s and con’s regarding on-line publishing: Now You Read It, Now You Don't: A Cautionary Look at Online Literary Magazines . If you’d like to add your two-cents regarding this incident or the entire online publishing scene, please do.

As for JR, hopefully he’ll be back soon.

Sincerely, Charlie.

P.S. Did everyone enjoy my cameo appearance in Adopted Behaviors?

S.E.E.

Isn’t it funny how our perception gets all distorted in times of change? My 84-year old mother-in-law fell and broke her hip and arm and during this S.E.E. (Significant Emotional Event) we had thoughts of confiscating her driver’s license, putting her in a nursing home, and … gasp … selling her house in a depressed real-estate market.

I’m happy to report that she is doing fine. She IS in a nursing home, but it’s not what you think—three to four weeks of rehabilitation and it’ll be business as usual. She’s already maneuvering the hallways with the aid of a crab-walker. In the meantime, my wife and I are cleaning her kitchen, living room, etc… so she’ll be able to get around her house better.

As for Charlie, her travel-companion-dummy, he’s an emotional wreck and misses all those road trips, especially those short jaunts to Canada. According to my mother-in-law, Charlie refuses to declare his citizenship. “Ma’am,” the Canadian border-patrolman will interrupt, “HE has to answer for himself. Sir, your country of origin?”

Thanks for all the well wishes. I hope to be traversing the blogosphere soon.

VOLE (FOR LACK OF A BETTER TITLE)

I was going to tell you about the traps I baited with peanut butter; how a vole got its neck snapped in my garage, but I never got around to it.

Then I decided I’d share the story about my student who threatened to kill himself last week; how he held a razorblade to his throat in contempt of a transfer notice. He was in the process of GED Testing and didn’t want to leave our facility. I’m not sure why I passed this up, why I failed to tell you.

I made myself a deadline—Saturday, February 21, 2009—I would do a two-for-one, I’d write about the vole and the student, my way of making up for lost time. I’d dispense this information like so many other bloggers—one detail after another.

Unfortunately the weekend has passed. So much for deadlines. Call it procrastination. I have my reasons. How about this one: Saturday night my 84-year-old mother-in-law tripped over a piece of duct tape on a dance floor, fell, and broke her arm and hip. My wife coordinated a 3-hour ambulance ride from a hospital in Clare, Michigan, to Detroit where my mother-in-law could have surgery closer to home. I cleaned out her refrigerator, stuffed five bags of mini-carrots, two rotten apples, some apricots, moldy pita bread, and cottage cheese down her garbage disposal. She’s not coming home any time soon. Rehabilitation will follow. “Don’t you put me in a nursing home,” she warned. I stayed out of it. My wife will handle the arrangements. It’ll probably be a 3 to 4 month ordeal.

Today I’ll retrieve her vehicle. I’m sure her senior citizen friends will miss their designated driver.

I'M A WRITER, YOU'RE A WRITER

More often than not, I’ve had killers at my doorway politely asking if they can enter my classroom. And for the record: I would never jeopardize the safety of my students. Yes, I always say “NO!”

Prisoners know better; If they go somewhere without the proper itinerary and ID card, they risk getting temporary “Out of Place” tickets. Too many infractions are bad, very very bad, in the eyes of the parole board.

One inmate in particular was determined to speak to me. “I hear you’re a writer,” he said.

My typical response goes something like this: “Yeah, I guess so. I’ve written a few school papers, letters, emails, memos…”

Next thing I witness: this particular killer’s gravitating toward my desk and trying to bond with me. “I’m a writer too.”

Yippee-Yippee-Yi-Yi-Yaaay … and I’m a convict teacher!

Sorry for the outburst. I read today’s Detroit Free Press and I just can’t get the same PR as this particular man who once approached me about writing. Here's the article: Parolee aims to keep students, and himself, on track. Hey, at least watch the video.

NANO FICTION

Wow! There are some heavy hitters in this issue of NANO Fiction:

Kim Chinquee
Randall Brown
Bob Thurber
Blake Butler

…and many many more.

I can’t wait to get my copy. Perhaps I’ll showcase my flash-fiction piece on YouTube. How about a simple coffee-house style reading?

Hey—it’s all about caring and sharing. Or am I bragging?

I apologize. I’m excited.

I don’t know; maybe it’s just me. I read in today’s Detroit Free Press about a mom who shoved her 4-year old daughter in the oven. “I’m sick,” she told the 31st District Court.

And rightfully so: She’d been cut off from her expensive antipsychotic medication and, in her daughter’s words, “tried to bake me like a turkey.”

As sad as this is, I don’t want to prejudge anyone. Instead, I want to talk about the controlled environment I work in called PRISON.

I had my first full week dealing with mentally disturbed inmates. I’m not sure exactly how us academic teachers are supposed to react, but given the circumstances, I think we coped fairly well.

Maybe it’s just me, but I’m not sure placing these inmates into our classrooms before their files arrived, before they’d had their orientation (if they’ll have one at all), was such a great idea. Maybe it’s just me, but I think I would’ve waited to make a more informed decision about enrolling them in school.

When my new students arrived, we were cautious. One student in a short-sleeved shirt, obviously a cutter, displayed his self-inflicted wounds, and smiling, pulled his skin taut with 10-inches of stitching along his rightside cheek. He lasted one day. Since I’m responsible for my students’ whereabouts and he never showed for Day 2, I wrote his name on the absence list. Here’s what I got back: Needs to be re-evaluated. Upon further investigation I found out that he kept pulling those stitches out of his face.

On my third day of class one of my heavily medicated new students fell out of his chair and had a seizure. My students made sure the tables and chairs were cleared away while I rolled him onto his side and made sure he had a pulse and could breathe. When the nurse showed up she asked me if he’d been known to have seizures. I’m sure you already know how I wanted to respond—Fuck if I know, he just got here—but I said nothing.

I could go on, but I won’t. It is was it is and I do get paid.

I GOT PANKED!

It’s not often I get two acceptance letters on the same story; Multiple rejections, that’s a given. I sometimes think my middle initial stands for REJECTION. This week, however, I received another acceptance message for “Adopted Behaviors” even though it’s under contractual agreement with Underground Voices .

Blame my crazy-ass system if you will.

Here’s why: I maintain a semi-organized logbook of my paltry list of submissions and pull stories once they’re PUBLISHED. I know what you’re thinking: I should notify the other editors as soon as I commit the story elsewhere. But for some reason “rejection” lingers like residual gun powder on my hands. What if an editor changes his or her mind? What if I give them the rights to a story and they don’t use it? One time, I submitted a story to the Wayne Literary Review, received a $200 writing award I never applied for, and did not; I repeat DID NOT get published. Go figure.

In the back of my mind I’ve always wanted recognition from literary magazines endorsed by institutions of higher learning. Michigan Tech certainly is such a place. Still, I must honor my commitment. Plus, I believe UV has a larger readership. I’ll be first to admit: bigger isn’t necessarily better; each publisher has his or her audience. Maybe I’ll get PANK(ED) in the future.

What do you think? Did I pull the trigger too soon?

THE THAW

With the steady influx of Window Lickers attending my classes—that’s what a few staff members call the mentally disturbed inmates—and with the ice-damming on my house, it seems as if I’ve had very little time for writing.

I shouldn’t complain. Chiseling two-feet of ice from my gutters seemed therapeutic, even though my hands nearly froze. Also, the fresh air did me some good, gave me time to reflect.

Now that the snow has melted from the roof and I’ve crawled around inside the attic surveying the damage, I’m hoping to get back into some kind of routine, some kind of rhythm. I’ve got these peculiar ideas scuttling about my brain, and if I can put words to paper, if I can push aside my own personal demons and record these events, then I just might get somewhere, I just might have something. Still, there's no sense in rushing things.

GOING UNDERGROUND

Film Director, Screenwriter, and Editor Cetywa Powell has selected my story "Adopted Behaviors" for the March issue of Underground Voices.